


Gravity Rises: A Tale of Two Fords [Episode One]

by BrightnessWings19



Series: Gravity Rises: Season Three [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Adventure, Episode One, Family, Fantasy, Gen, Mystery, Paranormal, Season/Series 03, yay cults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 21:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18949042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightnessWings19/pseuds/BrightnessWings19
Summary: In the forest surrounding Gravity Rises, young scientist Stanford Pines makes the discoveries of a lifetime; through it all, Fiddleford McGucket is by his side. But when Fidds starts acting suspicious, Ford needs someone that he knows will have his back.Perhaps his twin brother can help.





	1. Chapter 1

**SUMMER 1978**

At first, Fiddleford thought that Bill Cipher must be a figment of his imagination.

The yellow triangle appeared in his dreams. Fiddleford thought nothing of it, but when a yellow triangle — occasionally with a top hat and a bowtie, of all things — kept showing up in his dream journal, he started to take notice. Fidds faithfully chronicled all his dreams, as he had since his childhood, and he wondered why his subconscious mind would be fixated on such a symbol.

He didn't tell Ford about it. After all, why should he waste precious time expounding his dreams to the debonair Stanford Pines, busy as he was? They had creatures to find, theories to develop!

. . . Ford would probably laugh at Fidds for keeping a dream journal, too.

For days — possibly weeks; Fidds could not remember all his dreams in perfect detail — the triangle appeared, sometimes as nothing but a fuzzy shape, other times in full clarity. The dreams were about all sorts of things: interactions with Ford in the forest, interactions with pesky locals in the town of Gravity Rises, interactions with Lilith back in Tennessee. But it didn't matter what the dream was about — the triangle was consistently there.

Then an eye appeared, right in the center of the triangle.

Fidds puzzled over this image in his mind's eye for some time. It looked familiar. . . and a bit disturbing. . . but where had he seen it before? Ford probably knew, but he didn't dare ask him; he was afraid of getting further questions. Instead, he spent a day in the library, and eventually came up with the Eye of Providence, which he recognized from the back of the dollar bill — the symbol of the Illuminati, apparently, and frequently tied to conspiracies. Why would he pull that image into his dreams, though?

Eventually, he decided it must be an abstract representation of his interactions with such things. After all, he was coming up against conspiracies every other week. Like the locals' staunch refusal to believe in the supernatural, even though it was right at their doorstep.

But then. . . then the dream triangle spoke.

That evening, Fidds crawled into bed after a long day of researching — and consequently evading — the naiads. One could only take so much of Ford's insistence on getting close to the water, only to nearly get drowned by the playful-but-deadly creatures. Fidds could hardly focus on what they were learning about the naiads when he spent so much time fretting over Ford's safety.

He'd spent some time meditating before bed, using the methods Lilith taught him and trying to calm himself down, but it didn't last long. He just needed sleep. So, finally, he gave up and got into bed.

Needless to say, he fell asleep quickly. And hours later, he had a dream that would permanently alter the course of his life.

He was back in college, getting bullied by some faceless jock. Ford — his usual protector in these situations — was nowhere to be found. But Lilith was there. She swooped in and shoved the jock away from Fidds, yelling something nonsensical. Fidds tried to ask her what she was doing at his college, why she left her lair, but the soothsayer didn't answer. Instead, she turned to him, regarding him with hooded eyes. The bracelets on her wrists jangled as she raised her arms and intoned, "Prepare, for he comes."

Then she disappeared in a burst of blue smoke.

Fidds stood alone in the hall. The bully had long since disappeared, and Fidds gave him no thought as he wondered about what had just happened. He had much more pressing things to worry about. What was Lilith doing here, and why had she disappeared? What had her mysterious message meant? Who was 'he'? Stanford, perhaps?

He turned to go somewhere else. Where, he did not know, but moving felt right. Perhaps he would find Lilith.

As he walked, his surroundings changed from a lecture hall to his hometown. He walked the streets, instinctively headed for Lilith's lair. Surely she'd be there. He would ask her to explain her message, though he doubted he'd get a straight answer. The mysteries of the cosmos were not for her to reveal outright, she always told him. They were for him to discover through her guiding words.

Lilith's shack came into view, and Fidds' heart lifted. There it was, his home away from home. He quickened his steps —

— Then stopped as a yellow triangle appeared, superimposed onto the cloth entrance to the lair.

The triangle, fuzzy at first, faded into view. Brick patterns. A bowtie. A top hat. An eye.

The Eye of Providence. Symbol of the Illuminati.

Fidds stood, frozen. What was the Illuminati doing here? Was its presence at Lilith's lair a good or a bad omen?

"Don't  **worry**  about your  **mentor** ," the Eye of Providence said. "You haven't seen her for  **years** ,  **remember**? This is  **actually**  a  **dream**."

"A dream?" Fidds repeated. That would certainly explain why a geometric shape just  _spoke_ to him.

" **Yes**.  **Remember**? You're  **conked out** after a hard day at work with  **Stanford Pines**. None of  **this** " — thin black arms appeared to either side of the triangle and gestured at the surrounding area — "is  **real**. Except  **me**."

Fidds stared. Not real. . . hard day at work with Stanford? His memory slowly returned as he recalled the naiads. Yes. That's right. He  _was_ dreaming. The Illuminati, after all, was something he only saw in his dreams.

Still, he hadn't expected it to talk.

He wondered what to say to a talking triangle. Finally, he settled on a simple, "Who are you?"

"The name's  **Bill Cipher**.  **Separate** from the  **Illuminati** , though I may have **inspired**  it." As it spoke, the triangle floated away from Lilith's lair, becoming smaller and more defined. Eventually, it — he? — floated close to Fidds, becoming a solid triangle with stick-like arms and legs. "And  **your** name is  **Fiddleford McGucket**."

Fidds blinked. "Well, yes, but — if I'm dreaming, then you're a projection of my subconscious. So of course you'd know my name."

The triangle bent back and forth in a gesture oddly reminiscent of shaking one's head. " **Nope**. I'm  **my own being**. A  **supernatural creature,** if you would. My only form of  **communication** with anyone, though, is through their  **dreams**."

This made sense, though there wasn't really any way to test it. But Fidds was sure he'd never heard the name "Bill Cipher" in his life, so maybe this creature was telling the truth.

That left another important question, though. "Why me? Why my dreams?"

" **Because.** " Bill's arm extended until it was long enough to rest on Fidds' shoulders. "I've been  **watching** you, and I see  **someone**  I can go to for  **help.** "

Fidds mulled this over. Then shook his head. "You must be thinking of Stanford. My research partner. He's the one who's actually useful."

" **No** ," Bill said. "I'm thinking of  **you**. You're  **certainly** useful. Or have you  **forgotten** what  **Lilith Crypt** told you?"

Fidds glanced warily at the triangle. "How do you know about Lilith?"

"She  **told** you that you were  **meant for great things.** That your  **fate** would surely  **coincide** with the  **motions**  of the  **ether**."

He was right. She used to say that. Those exact words. How. . . ?

His mind alighted on an explanation, and his hopes swelled.

"She meant you? You're my destiny?"

" **Why** do you think I'd appear by  **her lair**?"

Fidds felt a smile stretch across his face. "Did you know her?"

"Unfortunately,  **no**. I'm  **sure** we would've gotten along  **wonderfully** , though. She did  **much** to  **prepare**  you to  **meet**  me. To fulfill those  **great things**."

Fidds could feel his palms start to sweat, despite this being a dream. He was just that excited. "What great things? You said you needed help?"

" **Yes**. Your  **talent** with  **mechanics** is  **exactly** what I  **need**. Can I  **trust you**?"

"Trust me with what?"

" **Secrets**."

"What kind of secrets?"

"The  **mysteries** of the  **universe**. Mysteries you have to  **protect**  from people who  **wouldn't understand** them."

Fidds immediately thought of the idiot townsfolk of Gravity Rises. No problems  _there_  — he didn't tell them anything anyway.

" **Yes** ,  **them**. But also  **Stanford Pines**."

Fidds started. "Ford? Why would I keep secrets from Ford?"

"Same reason you haven't told him about your  **dream journal**. Or your  **past** with  **Lilith Crypt**. He wouldn't  **understand**. For  **now** , this is something between  **you** and  **me**. We'll tell Stanford  **eventually** , but he'd deal more  **harm** than  **help** right now."

Fidds nodded slowly. Of course, Ford wouldn't understand. He'd probably make fun of Fidds for reading too much into his dreams. And perhaps Fidds was doing just that — but no, Lilith had taught him how to discern power, and Fidds could definitely feel power coming from this strange triangular being. Fidds had a level of understanding that Ford, for all his genius, didn't have. The thought made Fidds feel good about himself.

" **Yes** ,  **Fiddleford**. I didn't go to  **Stanford**. I came to  **you. You**  are the one I need."

Pride swelled in Fidds' chest, and he looked into Bill's eye. The wide eye penetrated Fidds to the center, but Fidds found himself strangely comfortable with that. This being saw him. This being  _knew_ him. Lilith had been the only one to really understand Fidds, and she was gone. But now this supernatural being, this Bill Cipher, had appeared to him. And Fidds was once again understood.

Bill removed his arm from Fidds' shoulder and floated back. "I have to  **go**  soon," he said. "My  **visits** are limited to your  **REM sleep**. But I'll be  **back**."

"When?" The word tumbled from his lips as he regarded Bill with a mixture of alarm and longing.

" **Every night** that you can  **remember** me. I suggest  **writing** this dream down as  **soon** as you wake." He regarded Fidds with a half-lidded gaze, something like a smile. "But you  **already** do  **that**."

Fidds nodded. He was already planning to record this dream, even before Bill mentioned it.

"Pleasure to finally  **meet** you,  **Fiddleford.** I'm  **excited** to speak to you  **further**."

The dream faded.

His eyes opened; the day's new sunlight filtered in through the window. It took Fidds a moment to remember — remember the dream, remember Bill, remember his destiny — but once he did, he sat bolt upright, his hands fumbling for his dream journal. He kept it by his bedside, primed for him to write on its pages.

And write he did.

He couldn't remember much of what happened before and after Bill's visit, but he remembered Bill himself in near-perfect clarity. It was amazing! Never in his most vivid lucid dreams did Fidds experience this level of recall. If this was what every dream with Bill was like, then Fidds couldn't wait for the next one!

Fidds wrote feverishly, but it still took him quite some time to get all the details down. He was just writing Bill's words about the mysteries of the universe when a knock sounded on the door.

"Hey Fidds, you awake?"

Fidds started so badly that he hit his head against the wall. He adjusted his glasses, which had been knocked askew, and looked wildly to the clock — fifteen minutes after he was supposed to meet Ford downstairs. And he wasn't even out of bed yet!

He quickly shoved his dream journal under his covers, in case Ford came into the room. "Scrabdoodle! Yes, I'm awake! Sorry! Give me, um. . . twenty minutes! I'm sorry!"

"It's fine," Ford called through the door. "See you then."

Fidds waited until the footsteps faded before pulling his dream journal out from under the covers. He hurried to write down the rest of the dream, jumped out of bed, and rushed to get ready. He was just pulling on his tweed jacket when Ford knocked on the door again. "Just a minute!" Fidds called. He glanced to the clock again, surprised to find that another half hour had passed since Ford first came to check on him. Cursing himself for his terrible sense of time, Fidds pulled the door open.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I lost track of time, I'm sorry—"

Ford waved away his apologies with a grin. "You had some interesting dreams last night, I presume?"

Everything stopped. It took Fidds a full second to process what Ford had said. Then his eyes widened in horror. Ford — Ford  _knew_? Did he know about Bill? Did he know about Fidds' destiny?

Ford laughed at the expression of sheer terror on Fidds' face. "I take it from that look that you  _do_ keep a dream journal, then? I figured. I start my day by writing in mine as well."

Fidds stared at Ford for a minute before stammering, "Y-you mean — you keep a dream journal t-too?"

"Of course I do! Practically every scientist is right now!" Ford glanced at Fidds with eyes full of mirth. "So, what was so interesting in your dreams that you were almost an hour late this morning?"

The two men started down the stairs, descending from Fidds' attic room atop Ford's new laboratory. Fidds couldn't believe his awful luck. It was only a few hours after Bill told him to keep their visits a secret from Ford, and the scientist  _asked_  about them? What was Fidds going to say? He hated lying, but if he was going to keep Bill's trust. . .

"Um," he said. "I d-dreamt that we w-won a N-Nobel Prize for our r-research."

Ford laughed and clapped a hand on Fidds' shoulder, making the engineer jump again. "I love dreams like that. Can't wait to make them a reality, yes?"

Fidds laughed nervously. "E-exactly." While his head felt light from relief that the lie had worked, his stomach churned with guilt.

Man up, Fiddleford, he told himself. If you want to fulfill your destiny, you're probably going to have to do hard things like this. It'll be worth it to help Bill.

Ford started talking about something, but Fidds wasn't sure what. His mind was off daydreaming about all the amazing things Bill could do. All the amazing things  _Fidds_ would do as part of his destiny.

Fidds did his best to pay attention and to help Ford with the work. But his memories of Bill never fully left his mind. As he discussed naiad habitats with Ford, he wondered how Bill represented the motions of the ether. As he sketched blueprints for a trap to capture the gnomes, he fantasized about what Bill's mysteries of the universe could be. Through it all, a small smile never left Fidds' lips.

If only Lilith could see him now.


	2. Chapter 2

**WINTER 2013**

Despite it being ten in the morning, the streets of Gravity Rises were deserted.

The townsfolk all huddled in their homes, waiting for the end of the gravitational anomalies that had plagued them through the night. The whole town held an atmosphere of bated breath, as the people waited for the next anomaly, praying that it would never come.

This time, it didn't.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the townspeople of Gravity Rises crept from their homes, finding their neighbors and ensuring the safety of their friends. The terror of the night had officially passed. Their anxieties were over.

But for the Pines, those anxieties had only just begun.

In the basement of the Mystery Museum, they all stared at the strange man from the interdimensional portal. The twins, Mabel and Dipper, stood near each other on one side of the room. Melody Ramirez stood on the other. Stanford, driven to his knees, stared out from the center of the room.

Melody broke her gaze from the stranger and turned it to Stanford. The look on his face broke her heart. Her patient — the man she had promised to protect, the man who had opened the portal, the man who had been injured in the process — had expected a brother. A brother who had been missing for thirty years. And he got this man instead.

Melody wanted so badly to run over to Ford, to hug him, to protect him, but she couldn't move. The entire room was frozen. The man from the portal had cast a spell of horror over the Museum basement, and Melody couldn't break it.

". . . Stanford?"

Everyone jumped. Across the room, Mabel grabbed onto Dipper's arm in shock. The man. . . the man had  _spoken_. That made sense, most people could speak, but — well, Melody hadn't been expecting it, somehow.

This single word broke the spell. Ford got to his feet. The despair on his face flashed into anger, and he strode angrily across the room toward the man. "What did you do to my brother," he said quietly, stringently, his words barely audible over the hum of the portal.

The man's expression was disturbingly blank as he murmured, "Stanford. . . I'm sorry. . . ."

"Where is Stanley?" Ford roared, grabbing the man's tattered clothing and shaking him back and forth. "What did you do to my brother, you—?!"

"Ford!" Melody ran across the room and shoved Ford away from the man. "Stop! This isn't how you get your answers!"

"Get out of the way, Melody!" he screamed in her face. "Don't you dare get in the way of—"

"Of your destructive tirade?" she shot back. The man from the portal looked about ready to fall over. She grabbed him around the waist, lifted his arm over her shoulder, and held him up. "This man needs care, Stanford Pines, and you are  _not_ going to hurt him. Do you hear me?"

Sometimes — every once in a while — her firm tone cowed Ford. Not now. His eyes flared with rage, and he opened his mouth to yell at her once again.

"G-Grunkle Ford, p-p-please. . ."

Mabel, sweet Mabel, spoke up from across the room. Her frightened voice calmed Ford where Melody's firm one could not. The anger drained from his eyes, from his posture. The despair swept in again. He looked ready to crumple into a ball and give up hope. He spoke again to the stranger, his voice void of anger but full of anguish. "Fidds. . . Fidds, where is Stanley? Is he. . . is he still in there?" He pointed despondently into the swirling mass of the portal. "Do we need to go in and rescue him?"

So this was Fiddleford McGucket? Melody glanced sideways at the man she supported. A new wave of pity swept through her as she saw, not a twisted or diabolical villain, but a frail old man in need of help. This was the man who had erased Ford's mind, stolen his Journals, and then disappeared?

Fidds rasped something, but Melody couldn't make out words. "What did you say?" she asked. She kept her voice steady and deliberate, though that was the opposite of what she felt.

He tried again, and this time she could understand him. "Not — not in there," he said. "Nothing in there. Nothing. . ." His voice was even weaker than had been before. He seemed to be shutting down.

No. He couldn't shut down. He had to tell them were Stanley was.

"Fidds!" Ford snapped his fingers in front of the man's face. "Focus! Is Stanley in there? Do we need to go after him?"

Fidds shook his head, his long beard swaying on his chin. "Nothing there. No one but me. . ."

"How do you know that?" Ford demanded, desperation leaking into his voice. "How do you know Stan's not in there — I remember him falling in—"

"He's not. . . not in there. Nothing in there. . ."

"How do you know?" Ford shouted. Melody thought she could see tears glistening in his eyes.

Fidds flinched at the volume. He didn't meet Ford's eyes, only stared at the floor. "Stanley's gone," he mumbled. "I. . . I got rid of him."

The basement fell into silence again, save for the whir of the portal. Then, numbly, Ford pulled the lever to shut off the portal, and even that sound disappeared. The light from the portal faded, leaving only the dim lights around its triangular border.

Fidds slumped in Melody's arms, and she struggled to keep him aloft. Then she gave up and lowered him to the floor instead. When she looked back at Ford, he was once again on his knees, with inquisitive words swimming behind his eyes. Those words wanted,  _needed_ to come out, but Ford fought against them.

Finally, they pushed through his lips. "Is he dead?"

The words, though the barest form of a whisper, carried more volume than the former rumblings of the portal. Melody refused to consider the implications of what Ford had said, because Stan couldn't be dead. He  _couldn't._ Not after all of this. She held Fidds, kept his head up so he could respond. He was extremely weak; she could see the wakefulness fleeing from his eyes — but Ford needed him to respond. He  _had_ to respond.

"Fiddleford," she whispered. "Where is Stanley?"

The man's eyes moved, though with his strabismus she couldn't tell where he was looking. Finally, he forced out two more words.

"Not. . . dead."

Then his eyes closed, and he fell unconscious.

Some of the tension left Ford's shoulders as he breathed out in relief. It wasn't much — he still looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders — but it was something.

"He's out there," Melody said as she cradled Fidds in her arms. A swift touch to his neck demonstrated a weak — but existent — pulse. "Stanley's out there somewhere."

Ford met her eyes. "Where?" he asked helplessly. "I — I remember him falling into the portal — I remember it so clearly — Fidds couldn't plant new memories in people's heads, could he?"

Melody could only shrug, feeling almost as helpless as Ford looked. "We won't know until Fidds wakes up and can answer our questions. He's very weak." She turned her eyes down to Fidds' sleeping face, which was scrunched up and tense despite his slumber. "The way he was talking, it sounded like he's been alone for thirty years," she said quietly.

Ford nodded listlessly.

"Ford?" asked Melody gently. His eyes flicked to her, but otherwise he didn't move. "We need to get this man upstairs. Could you help me carry him to your room? I can tend to him there." She looked to the twins, who had been watching the scene with wide eyes. "We're going upstairs, kids. Grab the Journals and whatever else we brought down here. Hopefully, we're not ever coming back."

She didn't want to be in charge. But someone had to be. With one elderly man unconscious, and another delirious, and two children standing aside, Melody was the only one who could do it. So she shouldered the burden — and Fidds' brittle body — and moved things along as best she could.

"Ford," she said softly, "help me with Fidds. Please. We need to leave."

This time, Ford did as she asked. Together, they lifted Fidds off the floor. Melody did her best to carry more weight than Ford did, as he was recovering from injuries attained less than twenty-four hours ago, but she couldn't carry Fidds by herself. Slowly, strenuously, they made their way out of the portal room, through the control room with its bulky machines, to the elevator. Mabel and Dipper scrambled ahead of them, their arms laden with the three Journals and the tools Ford had brought downstairs. Melody and Ford carefully brought Fidds into the elevator, and the twins followed.

"Do we have everything?" Melody asked.

Mabel and Dipper nodded. The haunted look in their eyes was far too heavy for their years.

"Good." Melody pressed the button to send the elevator upwards. Up to the real world. Up, away from the portal, away from the horror they had just experienced.

She could only hope that the horror would stay in the basement where it belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

**SPRING 1980**

Papers went flying as Ford shoved them off his desk. "Where?" he shouted to nothing in particular. "Where did you come from? How did you get here? Why are you  _nowhere else_?"

Fidds adjusted his glasses, which had been knocked askew as he jumped in surprise. Silently, he stood up from his desk and moved to go pick up the papers.

It took a full minute before Ford finally joined him. "I'm sorry," he said. Frustration leaked through his voice. "I was out of line."

"I get it," Fidds said. "I'm frustrated too."

This wasn't a lie, though Fidds wasn't frustrated about the same things as Ford.

At the beginning of the year, Ford had declared a new project: discovering the origins of the supernatural creatures that lived in the forest. "It's been four years," he'd said, "and we have to produce something if we want more grant money. I want to find the history of these creatures."

"Couldn't we publish a paper on one creature?" suggested Fidds. "We can analyze their anatomy or their habitat or—"

"No, no." Ford had waved away the suggestion. "That's not enough. If we publish something as simple as that, then other scientists will flock here and take away the big discoveries. We need a comprehensive theory. A. . . a Unified Theory of Weirdness." He frowned. "I'll work on a better name."

Fidds thought discovering the supernatural at  _all_ was pretty big. Back in their college days, Ford had come across an obscure reference to strange activity in the Northeast of Oregon. He'd gotten so excited by the possibilities that he'd invited Fidds to come with him to Gravity Rises, where his hopes had been realized — and then some. Strange activity  _abounded_ here. For the past four years, they'd researched the area and documented their findings, hoping to pull them together into some publication that would earn them money and prestige.

But then, two years ago, Fidds had joined the Order of the Crescent Eye. And he'd learned that turning the eyes of the world onto Gravity Rises, Oregon was a very bad thing.

So while Ford stressed about his "Unified Theory of Weirdness," Fidds stressed about what he could possibly to do dissuade his research partner. Right now, the creatures of the forest were  _safe_. Safe from human eyes, safe from being captured or exterminated. The Order made sure of that. If Ford's research brought the masses to Gravity Rises. . . what then?

Ideally, the Order would've just wiped Ford and Fidds and sent them on their way, but the two scientists were somehow immune to Gaston Northwest's amulet. Fidds thanked his lucky stars that this was the case, though at the same time he wished it wasn't. If they'd been wiped, Ford and Fidds could've gone into more practical research that  _didn't_ threaten entire species. Fidds could've built computers instead of building stun guns. He could've made his own money instead of depending on Ford's. He wouldn't have had to worry about everyone's safety — his own, that of Ford, and that of the creatures alike.

Though he also never would've met Bill Cipher. He never would've fulfilled his destiny.

Now, as he picked up papers off the floor of Ford's lab, he glanced at the content of the pages. "You're rereading your interview with the nymphs?" he asked.

"Yes," Ford said. He gathered the last of the papers and stood up. "I don't understand it! It's almost like they don't want me to know!"

Maybe because they don't want more people here, Fidds thought. But he didn't say it aloud.

A loud knock sounded from across the house. "Ah, that'll be the Valentinos," Ford said. He left the room.

The Valentinos ran a construction company; they had built this lab four years ago. Now, Ford had hired them to add a basement. Fidds had suggested it: couldn't they use the space? The bunker was cramped and noisy with all its captive creatures; the lab was crowded with half-finished projects. Down in the basement, Fidds could build a complex computer system that would help them analyze their findings.

At least, that was the excuse Fidds had given. He couldn't tell Ford the  _real_ reason for the basement.

Fidds plopped back down into his chair with a sigh. He couldn't tell Ford a lot of things. He couldn't tell him about Bill, he couldn't tell him why the townsfolk were so ignorant to the local supernatural creatures, he couldn't even tell him where he disappeared to every week. Every time he lied, every time he made up excuses, another pang of guilt tore at his mind.

But it'd be worth it. Fidds kept telling himself that. It would all be worth it.

As Ford worked with the Valentinos in a different room, Fidds pulled out the prototype of the memory gun. It was his main project for the Order: with this gun, they'd be still be able to wipe memories after Gaston turned eighteen and inevitably lost the ability to use the amulet. And, if all else failed, Fidds could use the gun on Ford, to stop him from publishing his findings.

Just thinking about it made Fidds' stomach churn. He really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

He worked on the memory gun for maybe half an hour before voices sounded in the hallway. "Thank you again!" Ford called. "I'll leave you to it!"

Fidds shoved his work back into its drawer and locked it. When Ford opened the door, he found his friend poring over notes on gnome habitats.

"They'll be making a racket," he said to Fidds. "I'm afraid it may be hard to focus."

"O-oh, that's okay," Fidds said. "I was, um, actually about to leave."

"For your knitting club?" Ford asked.

Fidds nodded. Upon joining the Order, he'd fabricated a knitting club that met at the library, to cover up his meetings with the Order. The excuse worked: Fidds liked to knit, and Ford was always too busy to go to the library and discover Fidds' deception. The man had far more pressing things to worry about than what his assistant did in his spare time.

"I'll see you later, then," Fidds said as he pulled on his tweed jacket. "Good luck with those notes."

Ford raised a hand in farewell.

Fidds grabbed some leftovers from the kitchen — the edible ones of his own making, not the disasters that Ford had created — and headed out. A light rain greeted him as he walked through the brisk spring air, and the rays of the setting sun peered through the cloud cover to light his way. He headed for the library, skirting around reluctant piles of snow that still clung on after the winter. Spring was slow to come in this town; it took weeks of rain for the last of the snow to finally flow into the muddy puddles of rainwater.

One of these puddles barred access to the door in the back of the library. Fidds frowned down at it, wondering how he was supposed to get inside soaking his shoes.

No one arrived to give Fidds a solution. Eventually, he heaved a huge sigh and walked carefully to the door. He did his best to avoid the worst of the puddle.

His shoes got soaked anyway.

He made it to the door and opened it with a key on his key ring. Every Order member had one of these keys, though Fidds found the practice cumbersome. He'd have to build some kind of automatic lock on the door.

Once he finished the memory gun, that is. And whatever other projects Bill might have for him.

Finally, his shoes squelching on the stone, Fidds made it inside the Order headquarters. He walked through the flame-lit halls, surprised to find them empty. Where was everyone? Were they already here? Was he late?

 _Scrabdoodle!_ Fidds picked up the pace, loathe to be the last person that walked into the meeting. Then everybody would stare at him; he hated that. He quickly made it to the main meeting room and opened the door. "Sorry, I'm here now—"

He stopped. The room was empty, save for one person. "Ah, Fiddleford, you startled me," Percy Pleasure said. "You're early."

Fidds checked his watch — only by five minutes. "Wh-where is everyone?" he asked.

Percy tilted his head, apparently confused by the question. "It's just you and me tonight."

Fidds blinked. "O-oh," he said. He'd spent the day mentally preparing to deal with a crowd, but that was fine, he could just instantaneously restructure his mindset for this spontaneous one-on-one meeting.  _Not_.

"Well, now that you're here, why don't we go to my office?" Percy suggested. "Much easier to talk in there, in my opinion. This place is too big."

"S-s-sure," Fidds stammered. What else was he supposed to say to his leader?

They walked together down the Order halls. Fidds didn't see anyone else; the Order headquarters was usually pretty empty, until a memory wipe was needed or a meeting was called.

"I notice you're not wearing your robes, Fiddleford," Percy commented.

Fidds' face immediately grew hot with embarrassment. "O-oh — I totally forgot — I'm sorry—"

Percy waved away his apologies with an airy gesture. "You're fine," he said. "They're rather stuffy, if you ask me. I don't blame you for forgetting."

Fidds swallowed and nodded, not knowing what to say. He followed Percy down the flame-lit halls until they reached his office. It wasn't too far, but with Fidds' nervousness it seemed to take an eternity.

Opening the door, Percy gestured Fidds inside. The office was simple: a desk, a few chairs, a cabinet or two, lantern sconces scattered along the walls. Fidds nervously sat in the nearest chair, fixed his eyes on the nearest sconce, and watched the lantern's flame as it reflected on the stone wall.

"How is the memory gun?" asked Percy as he shut the door behind him.

"I-it's coming," Fidds said. "There should be another shipment arriving at your house soon."

Percy nodded. To throw off Ford's suspicions, Fidds ordered supplies for the memory gun to ship to Percy's home. The money was a little more tricky — Fidds had to ask Ford for more than he needed when buying supplies so that he could buy memory gun parts on the side.

"Well," Percy said as he sat down behind the desk, "I have another assignment for you. Or, Lord Cipher does."

Fidds' heartbeat sped up. "Will I use the basement for this one?"

Percy tilted his head. "Yes, this is why he ordered the basement to be built." Fidds hadn't actually known the specific reason for the basement; he'd just known that Bill had demanded it. "And there's something else," Percy continued. "Something I imagine you'll be excited to know."

"Yes?" Fidds perked up a bit.

Percy gave a small smile. "It's time," he said. "It's time for Stanford to know."

 _That_ got Fidds' attention. "It is?" he asked eagerly. "We're inducting him into the Order?"

"Not quite," Percy said. "We'll still keep the Order from him. Lord Cipher will appear to him as a muse, one who can help with his. . . what was his name for it, again?"

"The, um, the Unified Theory of Weirdness?"

"Ah, yes." The corners of Percy's mouth twitched. "Cipher will propose a solution, one that will get Stanford the information he needs while spontaneously freeing our lord. He needs your help, though."

If Fidds' heart hadn't been racing before, it certainly was now. This. . . this was it! This was his destiny! He'd known the memory gun wasn't the full thing; he'd felt that there was more! "With what?" The words spilled out of his mouth. "Help with what?"

Percy's subtle smile broadened at Fidds' enthusiasm. "What does Lord Cipher call you, Fiddleford?" he asked. "When you talk with him in your dreams?"

The question threw Fidds for a loop; he hadn't been expecting it. "Well. . . Portal-Bound. He calls me Portal-Bound. B-but I never understood why."

Percy leaned forward. "This is why," he said. "You and Stanford are going to build an interdimensional portal. Right in that basement of yours will be an entrance into Lord Cipher's homeworld."

Time seemed to stop as Fidds tried to process this. It seemed hard to breathe. "What?" he finally squeaked.

"You, Fiddleford McGucket, will provide the route to Lord Cipher's freedom," Percy said. "We have to get Stanford in on it, otherwise it'll be virtually impossible. But it's a win for him, too. Cipher will be free, we in the Order will gain our reward, and Stanford will have endless material to study."

"I-I—" Fidds swallowed hard. "I can't believe it, Master Pleasure," he said. "That I should — that Bill would trust me to — What if I fail?" He was honored, of course, but a sudden fear of failure clutched at his lungs.

"Fail?" asked Percy. "Why should you fail? You'll have Lord Cipher on your side, Fiddleford. He will ensure that you succeed."

Of. . . of course. Of course he would. Had Bill let him down before? No! Bill had led Fidds to the Order, where he felt included for once in his life, where he felt some of the same things he'd felt with Lilith Crypt. Bill had taught him amazing things, had helped him design the memory gun. A muse, indeed!

"R-right," Fidds said. "Right, I'm sorry, I just get worried. I'm. . . I'm honored."

"As you should be," Percy said with a smile. "It will be a long project, of course, and whatever time you can spare for the memory gun will be vital. The gun should be complete before the portal."

Fidds nodded. "And when should the portal be completed?"

"As quickly as possible," Percy replied, "but with enough time to be thorough. I imagine Stanford will want to spend all his time on this project."

Probably. Ford had a tendency to hyperfixate on things he got excited about, sometimes to the point of forgetting to sleep or eat. Once this project got started, Fidds could see Ford becoming more invested in it than he.

If Ford wasn't suspicious of Bill, that is. Fidds had a hard time keeping track of what triggered Ford's paranoia. But he really hoped this wouldn't. Bill's help was a good thing!

"Lord Cipher will appear to you tonight to give you more instruction," Percy said. "How you should act once Stanford knows about him, what supplies you'll need for the portal, things like that. I'll keep your supplies for the gun safe until you come pick them up, too. Anything else you can think of that we need to discuss?"

Fidds thought for a bit. "Will we need to wipe the memories of the Valentino employees?" he asked.

"They're the ones building the basement, yes?"

Fidds nodded.

Percy shrugged lightly. "It should be fine. They don't know the purpose for the construction. But if it becomes necessary, we'll handle it."

Fidds considered this. "All right," he said. "I think that's it."

"Well then." Percy stood. "Pleasure meeting with you, Fiddleford," he said, making the pun with a perfectly straight face. "This is truly an exciting time. Until our next encounter, yes?"

A thrill of excitement raced through Fidds' abdomen. "Until n-next time," he said. He got to his feet and left the room with a respectful nod.

He could hardly contain his excitement as he walked through the Order halls. He wanted to scream, or jump around, or fiddle with his Cubic's Cube until he'd solved it a million times.

 _Portal-Bound_. Bill's nickname for him finally made sense. Fidds was bound to build a portal that Bill could use to escape — it was in his destiny. He, Fiddleford McGucket, would aid a magical being in accomplishing his goals!

He was daydreaming about what rewards he might gain from this when he suddenly found himself frozen, unable to move a muscle.

Instinctive panic welled up inside him. Then he saw the blue glow around him, as well as its perpetrator: Gaston Northwest.

Gaston's magic released its hold on Fidds. "You were about to run into me," he stated.

"O-oh," Fidds said. "S-s-sorry. I wasn't paying attention."

Gaston just nodded. The youth seemed distracted most of the time, and for a boy of eleven, his countenance was rather somber. Without saying another word, he passed by Fidds and continued down the hall — likely on his way to wipe someone's memory.

After Gaston, Fidds didn't see anyone else in the underground halls of the Order. He headed back to the lab and, after saying good night to Ford, went to his room. He wanted to go to sleep as soon as possible, so he could speak with Bill — but he was too riled up to sleep, so instead he stayed up, solving and mixing and resolving his Cubic's Cube over and over, until the colors blurred in his vision. All the while, his thoughts swirled around his head.

Finally, he was too exhausted to stay awake a moment longer. He flopped over on his pillow and closed his eyes. His mind still raced a mile a minute, but it seemed to be slowing down.

Then he succumbed to his fatigue, and his thoughts turned off like a light switch.


	4. Chapter 4

Ford lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The morning grew late, and yet. . . Ford just lay there. As soon as he'd woken up, he'd frantically recorded his dream in his dream journal. Then. . .

Then he'd realized just how bizarre the entire thing sounded. He'd had to lie back down for a while after that.

"I can  **help** ,  **Sixer** ," the creature had said. "I've been keeping an  **eye**  on you. You're really  **something special** , aren't you?"

This creature — this  _Bill Cipher_ — claimed to be a powerful being who could only visit people in their dreams. He said he had a lot of knowledge, including most — if not all — of the answers Ford had been searching for. But why now, why at the time Ford needed it the most? Was this just a hallucination from his tired mind? Ford knew he was high-strung, but he had half a mind to declare himself insane for fabricating something like this!

A hesitant knock sounded at his door.

"St-Stanford?"

Ford sat up. Was it truly that late?  _He_ was usually the one waiting for Fiddleford, not the other way around.

"Just a moment," he called. Maybe some human interaction would do him some good, after these crazy dreams. He got up, got ready, grabbed his third Journal, and pulled open the door.

Even though it'd been a few minutes, Fidds stood outside Ford's door like he hadn't moved whatsoever. His face was drawn with worry — not an unfamiliar expression for Fiddleford, but certainly unusual this early in the day.

"Fidds? You okay?"

Fidds started — honestly,  _everything_ startled this man. "Yes. I-I mean, no. I-I-I mean — did you see him too?"

Ford's stomach lurched. "See who?"

"B-Bill Cipher."

For a moment, Ford just stared at his research partner. "Where. . . where did you hear that name?" Perhaps — perhaps it was a name Ford had heard before, in waking life — perhaps he wasn't crazy—

"In my dreams. Did he. . . did he visit you?" Fidds gave Ford a hesitant, but curious, look. "He said he was going to."

Ford frowned. "Yes. . . yes, he did. Have you spoken to him before? How long have you known him?"

A curtain of guilt fell over Fidds' face. "J-j-just this week. I've been t-talking to him the past couple nights, a-and I was. . . I was too afraid to tell you. I'm sorry."

Well, Ford couldn't blame him — it's not like Ford had been planning on sharing his strange dream; it made sense that Fidds would likewise keep them to himself. "What has he said to you?" he asked. "Is he legitimate?"

Fidds nodded slowly. "I-I think he's the real deal," he said. "A-a-after all, he showed up in both our dreams, and we ain't never talked about him before, have we?" When Fidds got nervous, he tended to slip back into his natural Southern drawl.

Ford shook his head. "We haven't," he replied. "I. . . I guess he is the 'real deal,' as you say — it wouldn't be too hard to believe in a place such as this — but. . ." He put a hand to his head. "I don't know, it just seems too good to be true."

"I guess so," Fidds said. "But — but Stanford! Do you know what this means? We can finally get our answers! If this creature — this muse, if you would — wants to help us, then I say we take him up on the offer!"

"Muse. . . ," Ford said. Bill had used that terminology to refer to himself, too. He'd made it sound like he only offered his service to the most brilliant of people. And, well — Ford qualified under that umbrella, if he did say so himself.

"Okay," he said. "You're right. Let's take him up on his offer."

And that was the beginning of Ford's friendship with Bill Cipher.

Later that week, Bill described the concept of the  _multiverse_  — that the creatures in the area had all come from different dimensions and were congregated here. He suggested building an interdimensional portal to find their origins. It was amazing! Ford had, of course, considered the theory of alternate realities — which scientist hadn't? — but he'd mostly dismissed it as a whimsical fantasy, impossible to prove. Now —  _now_ , Bill was not only confirming the wild idea, but he was offering his assistance in  _accessing_ these alternate dimensions!

Forget using the new basement for whatever Fidds had planned, Ford decided. They needed to dedicate the huge cavern solely to this new project! "Just think of it," he said excitedly to Fidds one day. "Another world, right in our basement!"

They got to work. The Valentinos finished construction and helped the scientists move parts and machinery downstairs. They added a pipe that ran from the surface to a large fuel tank in the basement, built into a totem pole that boasted local Native American designs. "It's a touch of culture," Ford told Fidds cheekily. With the prospect of success, Fidds thought wryly, Ford sure was acting more cavalier with his money.

Fidds had been right about the fixation, too: Ford focused on almost nothing else after the commencing of the portal project. He did pull together resources about lucid dreaming and other sleep techniques, though. "Perhaps if we trained ourselves to meditate, and slip into a dream state that way," he'd say, "then Cipher could communicate with us more than just in the dead of night."

Between the mindfulness training, the basement construction, the portal construction, and late nights talking calculus or theoretical physics with Ford, Fidds hardly had any time for the memory gun. Thankfully, though, he had more financial freedom to buy parts. He was in charge of finding and obtaining machinery for the portal; if some of that money went to parts for the memory gun, then Ford was none the wiser.

Ford spent the nights conversing with Bill, the early mornings writing down the dreams and practicing mindfulness, and the days working out the calculations for the portal. Soon, the lab was filled with stacks of paper, with whiteboards full of hasty equations, with sticky notes threatening to lose their adhesive backing and flutter to the ground. "In some ways," Ford said once, when he was drunk on the thrill of scientific discovery, "it's better that my muse can only communicate with me in my sleep. That way, I'll actually get some!" The eager scientist was delighted that, with his nighttime conversations, his sleeping hours could be as useful as his waking ones.

For the better part of a year, Ford and Fidds worked steadily on the portal. Fidds slowly but surely progressed on the memory gun, too. In the beginning of 1981, he found himself in want of test subjects. It certainly wouldn't do to make  _himself_ forget things — that would make Ford extremely suspicious. And who knew what ill effects the memory gun might have in this stage?

He hesitated to express this concern to Percy, whose solution he suspected — and disliked. But Bill quickly confronted him about this. " **Tell Percy** what you need," he ordered. "You  **have** to test the gun, or you can't  **continue**  with its  **development**."

Well, Fidds' lord was right. And Percy suggested exactly what Fidds had feared: testing the gun on the townspeople who were brought down for a memory wipe. "It'll be fine," he assured the nervous inventor. "Gaston will be there to record your results — and if the gun doesn't work, he'll wipe the memories himself."

So it was that Fidds, after spending his days working on the portal with Ford, would spend his nights in the dim halls of the Order, testing his gun on unwilling human subjects.

The first few weeks were disastrous. In the first trial, the beam of the gun hadn't been focused properly, so Fidds knocked himself, the townsperson, and Gaston unconscious for hours. Early models of the gun also made the victim distractible and weary for days afterward — and, according to Gaston's observations with his amulet, didn't even wipe the intended memory!

The most interesting — and guilt-ridden — side effect was on other areas of the brain besides memory. Once, when a local named Susan Wentworth was brought to the Order, the memory gun damaged her left eye, leaving it permanently closed. Gaston quickly wiped her memory of the entire ordeal and sent her home to wake up clueless as to her new vision defect. But damage had still been done — noticeable damage that couldn't be fixed with a simple memory wipe. Fidds had avoided the Order for some time after that incident, consumed as he was by the guilt of this unintended harm.

But eventually he had to go back, had to keep working. He was getting there, he could do this, he knew he could, he just had to keep trying —

Where Fidds saw Ford's fixative tendencies, he was blind to his own.

As the year went on, Ford became more and more suspicious of his assistant. Fidds began to disappear nightly, sometimes during the day, always claiming to need more supplies (as if Gravity Rises had places to obtain such things) or going to his knitting club. At first, Ford was just annoyed by the lack of help, but that annoyance helped him notice things. How Fidds would sometimes fiddle with a strange-looking gun when he thought Ford wasn't looking. How he'd occasionally come home looking far more dejected than a knitting club would presumably cause. And, especially, how he'd never actually take yarn with him when he left the lab.

In fact, Ford hadn't seen a homemade sweater or scarf from Fidds for some time — since before they started working on the portal. Was he  _actually_ going to a knitting club? What was going on?

In the summer of 1981, a few weeks after they'd obtained fuel from Crash Site Omega with the help of the minotaurs, Ford investigated the mystery. Fidds left for his knitting club, taking nothing but that strange gun of his; after a few minutes, Ford followed.

Fidds was naturally jumpy, and this trait did not disappear as he walked down the streets of Gravity Rises. This meant that Ford had to take plenty of evasive measures to remain unseen. As he hid from his best friend, he doubted what he was doing. He knew he could be quite paranoid. Was he really sneaking around, following his friend to a simple, relaxing pastime? Perhaps the gun was a new invention of Fidds to revolutionize the knitting community. That seemed like something Fidds might do.

But Ford kept following. He just had to make sure. He'd discover that his friend wasn't hiding anything from him, and he'd laugh at himself for being so suspicious.

"Hey, Mister, why are you wearing a turtleneck in the summer?"

Ford stopped. A boy of about ten was ostentatiously pointing to his red turtleneck as his friends all whispered and giggled. The situation was so unexpected that Ford let it catch him off guard. "What?"

"Andhe's got that big coat, too!" said a little girl. "Aren't you boiling in that?"

By then, Ford had recovered from his momentary stupor. "No, no I'm not," he said curtly. And he walked away from the kids, picking up his pace so he wouldn't lose Fidds.

It was too late. Fidds was gone. Ford looked around the street, trying to discern where his friend could have disappeared to. The kids came up behind him, pestering him with questions until he finally fixed them with such a stalwart glare that they went running. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

Didn't Fidds tell him once where the club met? Ford racked his memory as his eyes raked the surrounding town. Eventually, they landed on the library, and he remembered.

He made his way to the library, rehearsing excuses in his head. If Fidds saw him, he'd certainly wonder why Ford had come. Everything from a fire in the lab to a desire to join the club ran through Ford's mind. Eventually he decided he'd just wing it, if it came to that.

But when he entered the library, he didn't see Fidds anywhere. He went to the circulation desk and inquired after the knitting club. The lady sitting there looked at him like he was crazy.

"There is a knitting club, yes?" Ford asked. "One that meets here at night?"

"No," the woman said slowly. "I suppose if you wanted to start one, you could." She glanced at his turtleneck, as if appraising the workmanship.

"I have a friend who attends a knitting club. I'm fairly certain I remember him telling me that this was the meeting place."

She shook her head. "No knitting club. Would you like to find a book on the subject?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Ford left the circulation desk, walking farther into the library. So he'd either forgotten where the club met, or Fidds had lied. But Ford wasn't one to remember things incorrectly, and Fidds had been increasingly jumpy lately. . . .

He walked through the entire library: it was small, only a single story. No sign of Fidds. He must be in another building. Ford sighed in frustration and went back outside into the warm night air. Now that those bratty kids mentioned it, he was feeling quite warm in his getup. He draped his trenchcoat over his arm and started back to the lab.

Now he knew. Fidds was hiding something. Fidds, who'd given up a career in computers to come here with Ford. Fidds, who hesitated to kill even an annoying housefly.

Fidds, who had kept Bill Cipher a secret from Ford.

Well, he'd hidden Cipher out of fear, hadn't he? Just as he'd hidden his dream journal, three years ago. This was probably another situation like that, where he thought Ford might not approve of something.

"Hey, Fidds," Ford said out of the blue one day. He didn't want to let slip that he suspected anything, but he did want to reassure his friend. "If there's anything else you're afraid to tell me — like with Cipher — you can tell me. I support you, you know."

Fidds stared at him with wide eyes, then nodded and forced out a smile. "Um, th-thanks. I got everything off my chest with Cipher, though."

I doubt you would support my shooting people in the head every night,the engineer thought with a pang of guilt.

Ford just nodded, and they kept working. In his mind, though, Ford was troubled. Well, maybe Fidds just needed time to come to his senses. Ford respected his friend's privacy; he could wait.

The summer waned, and the portal progressed, but Fidds never said a word about his so-called knitting club. Ford's instincts screamed at him to confront Fidds about it, but he hesitated. What if Fidds left? Where would Ford's interdimensional project be then?

So he kept his peace, though he became increasingly worried. What if Fidds was doing something dangerous? What if he hurt himself? What if he hurt Ford? Was Ford safe, being alone in the lab with Fidds for hours, days on end?

He never shared his misgivings with Bill. Bill was just a business partner, and Ford didn't want anything to impede the progress of their project. Discovering new worlds, new  _universes_ , was far more important than some paranoia between research partners.

But as time went on, Ford felt increasingly unsafe, and increasingly unsure of what to do. He couldn't kick Fidds out; he needed him. He couldn't move out himself; it was his house! But what could he do to protect himself against potential problems?

Then one day, as the heat of August was beginning to cool off into the squalls of September, Ford got a phone call.

"Hi, Sixer, long time no talk! Hey listen, do you think I could borrow some of that fancy grant money for a business investment?"

Ford rolled his eyes. Of course that would be why Stanley called his twin brother. Ford's twin was a few states away in Utah, trying to start a chain of coffee shops in a place largely populated with people who  _religiously_ did not drink coffee. Or so Ford had heard when the brothers last talked in spring.

"For your coffee business?" he asked. "I'm telling you, Lee, that's not going to work."

"Yeah, I know, I figured that out," Lee replied. "I got run out of Utah, actually. Well, good riddance to you, ya high-riding, holier-than-thou—"

"Stan," Ford cut in before his brother could insult his failed customers any further. "My grant money is being used for science. Not coffee, or whatever else. What crazy idea do you have now?"

"Vacuums!" The word came with a burst of static over the phone line. "I'm here in California, near Shermie's place, and there's a real need for quality vacuums here. Just give me some money to get me started and I'll be rich in no time!"

Ford sighed. "Go ask Shermie for money."

"Tried that. He said he needs his money to 'look after his wife and kids' or some such nonsense like that. Seemed annoyed to see me, to tell you the truth." Lee then turned on his marketing voice. "C'mon, Sixer, whaddaya say? I'll pay you back for the grant money as soon as I can. We could even get Fiddsy to tinker with the vacuums, make something people would fall over backwards to buy!"

What nonsense. "Fiddleford and I are working very hard on a project that's much more important than vacuums, Stanley." Though, as Ford gave an appraising look to the carpet beneath his feet, he did have to admit that it could probably stand to be cleaned.

"You leave me no choice, then," Lee said dramatically. "I'll just have to come up there and bother you about it until you give in."

"Yeah, and how'd that work with Shermie?" Ford said dryly.

But then a lightbulb went off in his head. Maybe a third person was exactly what he needed to keep Fidds in check.

"Actually," Ford said slowly, "that's a great idea."

"Really?" Lee sounded surprised; it wasn't often that Ford approved of his ideas.

"Yes," Ford said. "I have a bit of a problem that I could use your help with. Why don't you come to visit?"


	5. Chapter 5

**AUTUMN 1981**

Yeesh, this place looked like a Hallmark card.

Stanley Pines drove through the mass of orange and yellow leaves that drifted onto the road from the tangle of trees on either side. With the sun reflecting off the leaves, it was almost too bright for him to focus on the road. And he was sure he'd have some stubborn leaves stuck in the rims of his tires after this.

Still, he had to admit it was gorgeous. Ford scored some great real estate coming here. And now that the high and mighty Stanford Pines had invited his twin brother to move in with him, Lee  _also_  scored some great real estate. This was a great opportunity.

He wondered how gullible the townsfolk would be in Gravity Rises.

The winding road continued on and on, and Lee kept an eye out for the landmarks given to him by Ford. He had a map, too, but it was pretty useless in a place like this, where trees outnumbered people and roads frequently lacked asphalt.

"You owe me a tire alignment, Sixer," Lee grumbled to himself as his car wobbled down a bumpy dirt path.

Slowly, the reds and oranges of maple and cottonwood trees bled into the deep greens of coniferous foliage; this dimmed the road significantly. The shady pine trees left gaps of darkness that could easily hide someone. Lee wondered if any supernatural creatures watched him as he drove.

He surpressed a shiver. Maybe he shouldn't think about that.

Eventually, the trees thinned, revealing a teensy little town nestled under a towering cliff. Lee gave a tiny breath of relief as he passed out of the forest and into civilization.

Though the word "civilization" was a bit of a stretch.

Lee slowed his car and ambled down the main street of the town. This place was tiny! He couldn't decide if that was good or bad. A handful of people walked outside, taking advantage of whatever lingering warmth from summer they could find. Down the street, a quaint imitation of a log housed a restaurant called  _Greasy's Diner_. It seemed to be the only restaurant in town.

The car rumbled up to Ford's lab — it was easy to find, since it was by far the newest building in town — and stopped with a sigh of exhaustion. Lee pulled the key out of the ignition and swung out of the car. "I'm sorry, baby girl," he said, patting its roof. "Those roads were pretty hard on you, huh?"

"Stanley!"

Lee looked up just as the front door closed behind Ford. His twin walked down the porch steps, heading for Stanley with a smile on his face.

Lee's eyes lit up. He hadn't seen his brother's face in. . . what, four years? Five?

"Hey, Sixer!" Lee closed his car door and crossed to his brother, pulling him into a giant hug. Ford squirmed a little — he'd never liked Lee's hugs — but that only encouraged Lee to squeeze tighter.

"Can't breathe, Lee," Ford gasped.

"That never stopped you," Lee replied. "Cut me some slack, Ford, I ain't seen you for half a decade!"

Ford said something, but he couldn't articulate well, considering the constriction on his airway. Lee moved back enough that Ford could repeat himself. "Haven't," Ford wheezed. "I  _haven't_ seen you."

For that remark, Lee simply hugged his brother all the harder.

"Good to see you, Sixer," he said. And he stepped back, showing Ford the huge grin on his face.

Ford straightened his shirt, looking a bit flustered. "You're strong as ever, I see. Good trait to have in this line of work."

Lee raised his eyebrows as he went around to the back of his car. "Am I joining you in your work?" He pushed up the trunk, grabbed a duffel bag, and held it out to Ford. "I thought I'd just hang out here, work out a business strategy, improve people's lives in this town."

Ford also raised an eyebrow — a single eyebrow, which was a trick Lee had never mastered. "Improve their lives by selling them vacuums?"

"Nah, I left the vacuums in California. I don't know what I'll come up with here — it sort of just comes to me after a while."

Lee finished unloading the trunk, then closed it. The brothers loaded up their arms with bags that held the sum of Lee's belongings; they were few enough that only one trip was required. "I don't have much free space, I'm afraid," Ford said as they started for the door. "You'll have to be on the couch."

"Better than my usual bed," Lee said, and he jerked his head back to his car. "I love her, but she gives a mean crick in the neck."

Ford paused on the porch steps. "You sleep in your car? But you at least got to stay with Shermie in California, didn't you?"

"Sure, for one night," Lee said. "Then he said I was a bad influence on his kids and kicked me out. But I only taught them to pick locks!" He kept his tone light to hide the hurt; he'd always looked up to his older brother, and it was quite the shock to be turned away. But now that Sherman Pines had a family of his own, he made an effort to keep away from his parents and brothers. Lee had known about Shermie's rocky relationship with their father, Filbrick — the twins had often stayed up listening to the fights before Shermie had left for good — but he hadn't expected that animosity to reach to him.

"I'm sorry, Lee," Ford said. "I wish I could give you something better than a couch, after hearing that."

"Okay," Lee said, "I'll take your bed, then."

He flashed Ford a grin to let him know that he was kidding, but Ford wasn't looking at him. Instead, he watched the front door as it swung open.

"Stanley! What are you doing here?"

Where Ford had called Lee's name with excitement, Fidds said it with a touch of horror. The mechanic's eyes were wide with shock.

"Hiya, Fiddsyford," Lee said. "Nice to see ya. If you'll 'scuse me, I can put this stuff down and give you a proper greeting."

"Fiddsyford" did not seem at all thrilled to see Ford's twin, and he certainly didn't look ready to receive whatever this proper greeting may be. Lee glanced sideways at Ford; it seemed he had not informed his assistant of Lee's impending arrival.

"Fidds?" Ford prompted.

In a bit of a daze, Fidds stepped out of the way.

Lee went inside and dumped his armful of luggage in the living room. "Nice place, Ford!" he said as he turned on the spot. The house-slash-lab was unkempt and dirty, but beneath the neglect of the two bachelors that inhabited its halls, it really was a fine house.

"Thanks." Ford put his own bags down beside the couch, and moved Lee's pile out of the walkway. "Try not to clutter it up, will you?"

Lee snorted. "Please, you were always the one who trashed our room with your science-y stuff. I bet you have whole rooms full of clutter here. Eh, Fidds?" He glanced back.

Fidds blinked, his eyes still wide. It took him a few seconds to respond, and when he did, it wasn't in answer to Lee's question. "You're not — scrabdoodle, you aren't  _staying_ here, are you?"

Another grin sprung to Lee's face. He crossed to Fidds, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "That I am, Fiddsy, that I am!"

Fidds squirmed away from Lee's touch, then turned an accusing eye on Ford. "You didn't tell me about this!"

Ford shrugged. "I thought I could surprise you."

"Looks like you succeeded," Lee said.

"He'll ruin everything!" Fidds protested. "He'll get in the way, he'll break machinery, he — this is a terrible idea!"

"Nice to see you too," Lee said dryly.

Fidds ignored him. "We're so close, Ford — we can't afford any distractions."

"He's already here," Ford replied. "I figured we could use a third man."

It was a tactful response. Lee didn't know much about why he was really here; Ford hadn't wanted to explain over the phone. But he had asked Lee for his help with a situation involving Fidds. Now, with Fidds looking so alarmed at the prospect of his presence, Lee figured that Ford wanted some backup with his skittish assistant.

Or maybe he just wanted better company.

"Oh, c'mon, Fidds," Lee said. "We didn't really get to know each other when we met at Ford's graduation. Now we can. It'll be great!"

Fidds turned a baleful look on him, though it quickly evaporated into a cloud of nervousness. "Just st-stay out of my things," he said.

Then he hurried from the room.

Lee turned an amused look on Ford. "Great guy at parties," he commented.

Ford shrugged. "He's efficient when he isn't flustered," he said. "And he's right to be protective of his possessions. I don't want you picking any locks while you're here, okay?"

"Why would I do that?" Lee's face had ever the air of innocence.

Ford gave him a knowing look.

The brothers set up Lee's bed on the couch. Then Ford coaxed Fidds out of their lab, and Lee offered to make dinner. He enjoyed cooking, but one didn't have much chance to do so when homeless. Ford's kitchen wanted for ingredients, but Lee whipped up something decent, and the look on Ford's face when he caught a whiff said that he hadn't eaten good home cooking in quite some time.

Fidds ate the food, complimented Lee on its craftmanship, but stayed mostly silent through the meal. Lee broke the ice as best he knew: with loud laughter and boisterous conversation. The effort only seemed to give Fidds greater reticence.

The ice remained intact.

The next day, Ford began introducing Lee to his work. In his lab, he showed his twin the three Journals, which Lee read aloud with much pomp and circumstance (leading to a furious blush in Ford's cheeks). Mostly, Lee joked around to evade the shock and wonder of it all, not to make fun of his brother. Though that was an added perk.

"Wow, Ford," he said as he finished, "I'm surprised you're not dead yet."

Ford looked up from his graph paper and raised an eyebrow.

"But it's okay," Lee continued. "Now you have your big, strong older brother to protect you from the werewolves."

Ford's eyebrow lowered into a flat look. "Werewolves don't exist, Stanley. And need I remind you that you are only older by fifteen minutes?"

"Werewolves make more sense than some of the stuff in here," Lee said, waving the third Journal back and forth. "Scampfires? Floating eyeballs?  _Portal potties_?"

Ford chuckled. "Fidds went into one of those once. Called me two hours later from the swamplands of Florida."

Nearby, Fidds ducked his head and stared intently at his work.

"We'll have to take you out into the forest sometime," Ford said cheerily, "so you can see some of this stuff for yourself. We haven't been out as much recently, given our main project, but with you we might be able to capture creatures we've been wanting to study for years. How are those knockout patches coming, Fidds?"

Fidds glowered at him. "If I'd known you wanted me to make these so that Stanley could put us in even more danger, I wouldn't have agreed to it."

"Wow, Fidds, why didn't you run out a long time ago?" asked Lee. "Ford's the one who likes danger, not me."

Ford rolled his eyes. "You like a different kind of danger." He pushed back his chair. "Well, now you've finished the Journals — let's go down to the basement."

The sound of glass striking metal rang out, and the two Pines turned to see Fidds slamming a test tube into its holder. "What?" he demanded of Ford. "You can't take him down to the basement!"

"Why not?" the twins asked in unison.

"I'm not letting you near my life's work, Stanley Pines," Fidds said firmly.

"It's my life's work too," Ford argued. "That and the Journals. And I gave him those to read. It's fine, Fidds."

"He'll ruin it somehow!"

"Then by all means, come with us," Ford said impatiently, at the same time that Lee said, "I'm right here, you know."

Fidds glanced between the brothers, his shoulders losing more tension by the second. Finally, he slumped. "I'm coming with you," he said, as if he got the idea himself. He scooped up the knockout patch prototypes, stood from his desk, and fixed Lee with a fierce look. "And if you so much as touch anything, Stan, I'll test these knockout patches on you."

Lee raised his hands in surrender. "Message received."

The three men passed into a new hallway that was littered with boxes, then into a room filled with half-finished metal contraptions. Nearby, a staircase yawned into the ground, and Ford led the way down the steps. "Prepare to be amazed, Lee."

"By your hoarding skills?"

Ford shot his brother an unamused look, then gestured for him to get in a nearby elevator. The men crowded in together; Lee noticed that Fidds' earlier bravado had dissipated, replaced by nervous twitching. What a shame. Lee preferred the more confident Fidds.

The elevator descended, and Ford spoke through the dim light. "All these years of research," he said, and his voice took on a radio announcer quality that Lee knew well, "and we never figured out  _why_. Why there are so many creatures here. Why they're concentrated in this one spot. Why this is the only known place on the  _planet_ with these species."

Fidds cleared his throat. "Well, there are those selkies that the nymphs mentioned. They're out there somewhere, hiding among the humans."

This interruption took the wind out of Ford's sails. "Yes, thank you, Fiddleford. Some species have left over the years, supposedly, but it doesn't follow the known patterns of species migration. This area is  _stuffed_ full of creatures that shouldn't get along. They should fight each other to extinction or otherwise leave."

"But they haven't?" Lee asked, to throw his brother a bone.

Ford nodded, the movement barely visible in the elevator light. "It makes no sense. We were making no progress in figuring it out. Until last year, when we were contacted by a creature who wanted to help us with our research. He provided a hypothesis that we've been working to confirm ever since."

The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open, greeting the visitors with a soft pink glow that radiated from some large glass tanks to the left. Lee frowned at the glowing purple liquid that filled the tanks. "What's this?"

Ford stepped out of the elevator and flipped a switch, adding bright electric light to the eerie glow of the liquid. A huge cavern flickered into view, filled with metal machines. They formed an aisle leading away from the elevator, culminating in a control station with a glass panel above. Lee supposed it was a window, but the purple light was reflecting off of it in such a way that he couldn't see through it.

"This," Ford said reverently, "is our project. Here, I'll show you — the real beauty is behind that glass."

The basement was mostly put together, but various metal parts lay around in the walkway. Ford headed for the control station, deftly avoiding them. Remembering Fidds' threat, Lee picked his way carefully through the room. "This place looks like a horror movie, Sixer," he said. "What's that purple stuff, toxic radiation?"

"We found it in the wreckage of a UFO," Ford said. "It's the fuel that brought the ship here, thousands or even millions of years ago." He pointed Lee through a doorway to the right of the control station. "And it'll fuel our interdimensional portal."

The brothers walked through the door. A hulking triangle, its framework exposed, hung upside down on the far wall, with a gaping circular hole in its center. Lee stared up at it.

Then he burst out laughing.

"Interdimensional —  _what now_?" he said between huge gulps of air.

Ford flushed. "It's no laughing matter, Stanley!"

"'It's no laughing matter,'" Lee mimicked, draping an arm over his twin's shoulders. "I don't speak  _nerd_ , but I do know that the word 'portal' means some kind of entrance. That's a rock wall, Sixer! It's no entrance!"

Ford shoved Lee's arm away. "Yes, thank you, I'm very aware of that."

"It's the word 'interdimensional' that matters," Fidds said. "We're building an entrance to another dimension." He glanced at Lee. "That means 'alternate reality,' if you weren't sure."

Lee rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. I thought you guys were scientists. 'Alternate reality'sounds like those comics from that me-impersonator dude."

"Stan Lee?"

"Yeah, that guy," Lee said. "I thought you guys were doing real research up here in Oregon."

Ford's initial embarrassment had given way to the flat derision he resorted to as a defense. "You just read three books full of discoveries like the  _plaidypus_ , and this is when you laugh?"

"I laughed plenty while reading the Journals," Lee pointed out. "Right, Fidds?"

Fidds put up his hands and shot Lee an unfriendly look.

"You get what I mean," Ford said. "An interdimensional portal is no less believable than a Gremloblin."

Lee grinned. "Oh yeah, those things looked cool." He dropped his humorous attitude — a bit. "But seriously, Sixer, what are you planning on doing with this thing? Letting  _more_ crazy things into this town?"

Ford waved a dismissive hand. "No, nothing's coming out.  _We're_ going  _in_."

Lee blinked slowly. When his eyes opened again, his brother looked just as serious as he had before. "Wait, for real?" He turned to Fidds. "And you haven't figured out that Ford's the dangerous one?"

"It'll be the engineering feat of the century," Fidds said simply.

"Well, sure, I guess — if it works."

"It'll work," Ford said confidently.

Lee raised his eyebrows. "Just like the perpetual motion machine worked?"

He probably shouldn't have said it — but he was so shocked that he reached for whatever could pull him back up again. Ford, for his part, seemed to have gotten over the failed machine — mostly. Pink blossomed on the scientist's cheeks as he said, "This is different. This time I have Fidds' genius."

Fidds glanced surreptitiously at Ford — Lee caught the look, but he couldn't tell what it meant. Maybe the mechanic was upset at being referred to as a tool instead of a person. Well, that was a bad habit of Ford's. You got used to it.

The idea of interdimensional travel sounded way too fantastic. The stuff in the Journals — sure, Lee could believe that, because Ford could show it to him. But this? No way. Ford was probably dealing himself another round of crushing disappointment, just like he did with the perpetual motion machine some thirteen years ago.

"Lee? What are you thinking?"

Lee realized two sets of eyes were on him — one mildly anxious, the other hostile. This situation didn't seem like it had a good ending: opening the portal was dangerous, but failing would be a major psychological blow to Ford. The latter seemed worse than the former, since Ford had done dangerous things before and been fine. But who knew, maybe he would actually succeed. He certainly seemed intent on this portal device — who was Lee to put his brother down now?

"I'm thinkin'," he said slowly, "that I can handle the tickets. Y'know, once you commercialize this passage to another world."

Ford gave a relieved laugh. "Let's focus on opening said passage first, hmm?"

With a smile, Lee shook his head. "You never can think too far ahead." He clapped his hand on Ford's shoulder once more. "Now, am I gonna have to stare at pictures of these crazy critters all day, or can we go out and actually see some? Let's go get some old-fashioned adventure!"

His suggestion was met with a smile from Ford and a hedged expression from Fidds. But, well, who cared about Fidds? Ford's approval was what mattered here.

And that approval shone down on Lee as Ford grinned. "Sounds great," he said. "Any requests?"


	6. Chapter 6

It was evening by the time the trio returned to the lab. Predictably, Lee had asked to meet the nymphs, so he could "woo the lovely ladies." Ford never would have guessed that the sketches of forest nymphs in his Journals would capture anyone's heart, but he did have to admit the nymphs were beautiful (and drawn by quite the skilled artist, if he did say so himself).

Somehow, Fidds had ended up coming with them. He seemed reluctant, but Ford supposed he wanted to keep tabs on Stanley. It was unclear why Fidds had such a strong reaction to Stan's arrival. Was he truly concerned for his safety and his work? Or did he have something to hide? He had only met Lee once before; Ford didn't think that was long enough to develop such strong hatred for someone.

Whatever his motivation, Fidds stayed with the brothers for the day. As Lee romped through the forest, Fidds stayed back, his shoulders perpetually hunched. This didn't help the mood, but despite the obvious tension, they still had an exciting adventure — mainly because Lee ignored Fidds' hostility except to joke about it.

Lee seemed as excited as Ford had been when he first explored this forest, though he didn't express it the same way Ford had. It took Ford a bit to get used to his brother's personality again, after being away from him for so many years; but he soon remembered that, for Lee, what seemed to be flippancy or mockery was actually awe and respect. Lee didn't comment on the grandeur of the creatures he saw, but instead made jokes about the gnomes and the fairies. At one point, a group of gnomes scampered by, carrying one of Susan Wentworth's pies. At least, Ford assumed it was made by Susan (or "Lazy Susan," as people called her after the idiopathic damage to her eye), seeing as she was the only townsperson he knew who routinely baked pies. Lee watched the gnomes with wide eyes, laughing. "Wow," he said, "they'll have pie for  _days_  — that thing's twice their size!"

Ford, for his part, wondered whether Susan had seen the gnomes as they stole from her, and whether she'd finally believe in the supernatural. Not likely, knowing the people of Gravity Rises.

Soon, they reached the tree of Ford's favorite hamadryad, Juniper. When Lee said nymphs, he hadn't specified what  _kind_ of nymphs, so Ford had chosen to visit a friend.

Her tree stood within the habitat of the leprecorns — a horrifying cross between leprechauns and unicorns. The hamadryads didn't have much of a habitat, the way other creatures did. The species of the forest had firm territories, some of which were hidden by invisibility fields, like the minotaur dwelling. The hamadryads, though, were interspersed between the other habitats. Their cousins — the naiads and the dryads — had their own territories, but the hamadryads lived everywhere and nowhere. Ford supposed that when you could merge seamlessly with the tree to which you were bonded, the need for property became greatly diminished.

Lee became instantly enamored with the leprecorns, laughing as their horns played an annoying loop of Danny Boy, and Fidds sulked on the fringes of the clearing. Ford shuddered at the music and approached Juniper's tree. "Juniper," he called, "it's Stanford. I've brought friends."

The tree in front of him wavered, as if in a mirage. A tall woman clad in a dress of pleated juniper needles stepped out, her form shifting from ethereal to solid.

"Stanford Pines!" It was both a greeting and an admonishment. "Why do you never visit?"

"I'm sorry, Juniper, I really did mean to—"

She waved a hand, flipping her long auburn hair over one shoulder. "I keep telling you, call me June."

He didn't think it much mattered which he called her; neither were her real name anyway, just how he referred to her, since she claimed she was hesitant to share her real name with a human. Still, nymphs got testy when one didn't comply with their whims, so he relented. "Okay, June, I apologize for not visiting sooner."

She stared at him, then giggled. "So formal." Her eyes drifted to Stanley, who had abandoned the leprecorns to gape at her beauty. "Who's this, Fordsie? He looks just like you!"

Ford might have introduced him, but Lee stepped forward, intent on doing it himself. He swept into a pithy bow. "Stanley Pines, milady. I'm Ford's twin brother. Might I say, you look ravishing."

June giggled again, while Ford slapped a hand to his forehead. Where had Lee even learned the word "ravishing"?

These leprecorns weren't helping, either. A few of the pesky creatures trotted up to Ford, chirping Irish phrases and playing tinny music from their horns. Ford wanted desperately to kick them out of his way, but he didn't dare with Juniper standing so near.

"June, could we perhaps go somewhere else?"

June, who had been talking with Lee, stopped and blinked at Ford. "Why?"

Ford didn't mean to, but he gave himself away by glancing at the nearest leprecorn.

June laughed. "Oh, I see. Is this why you never come visit? You're irritated by my babies?" She scooped up a leprecorn and stroked its beard as if it were a dog.

Ford cringed at the sight. "Well, yes," he admitted. "Could we please go somewhere else?" he repeated.

"I like it here," Lee declared. He stooped down and plucked a four-leaf clover from the ground, holding it out to June. "It's the luckiest place I've ever seen."

Ford thought he heard a quiet noise of disgust from Fidds — and he had to agree with that sentiment.

The noise drew June's attention. Her gaze swung to Fidds, and her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Ford's brow knit in confusion. "You two know each other?" Ford had met June on a lone adventure, and as far as he knew, she and Fidds had never crossed paths.

"I'm Ford's research partner," Fidds replied, ignoring Ford's question. "We're just out doing research."

"What kind of research?" asked June, suspicion replacing the laughter in her eyes.

"Actually, we came out here so Lee could meet you," Ford said. "It's his first time visiting Gravity Rises."

After a breath, June turned a dazzling smile on Lee. All negativity was gone from her expression. "That's wonderful! Do you like it here?"

Lee grinned foolishly. "Definitely."

With June's attention back on his twin, Ford shot a questioning glance in Fidds' direction. Fidds just hunched his shoulders further and said nothing. Not to be ignored, Ford approached his friend. "How do you two know each other?"

"We don't," Fidds replied. "She must be confusing me with someone else."

Ford frowned. "She seemed very—"

"Fordsie, come over here!" June called.

With a final glance at Fidds, Ford did as she said. She led the Stan twins away from Fidds and — to Ford's dismay — deeper into the leprecorn habitat. "I want you to meet my favorite leprecorns."

Ford regretted following her. "I'd rather not—"

"C'mon, Fordsie, you know you like them." As she said these playful words, she turned a serious look on him, and he understood that she had something else in mind.

"I know I do," Lee added. But his eyes were on June, not on the leprecorns.

June led them into a meadow of clover (many of which seemed to have four leaves). Leprecorns flocked around them, their beards and tails brushing against Ford's legs. June let out a delighted noise and picked one up, holding it out to Lee. "This is Sean. He's a dear."

Lee took the leprecorn. "Hi, Sean." Seeing their fellow leprecorn in the arms of a human, the other leprecorns swarmed Lee, all vying for their own turn to be picked up. Honestly, these creatures were dumber than the gnomes.

While Lee played with the leprecorns, June took Ford's arm and led him away from his brother. "You asked if your friend and I knew each other," she said, her demeanor once again serious. "We don't. But I know of him. He's aiding the worst enemy of this entire forest."

"What?"

She took a long breath. "Stanford, I know you want to learn everything you can about this forest. About the creatures living here. But there are things we don't tell you for your protection. There's a conflict running deeper than you can know, and you don't need to get dragged into it. Your friend has gotten into it — and he's on the wrong side."

The entire speech was concerning, but Ford found himself zeroing in on the bit about "things we don't tell you". He had to admit he felt betrayed. "I knew you weren't telling me everything!"

June had the decency to at least look guilty. "Yes, well—"

"June! Juniper! Help!"

They turned to see Lee getting buried in an avalanche of leprecorns. "They're too friendly!" he called. "And their beards are making me really itchy!"

The playful mask went on again, and Juniper ran lightly over to him. "Oh, you silly things!" she cried. "Leave poor Stanley alone!"

Just like that, their serious conversation was over.

They stayed with June and her leprecorns for a bit longer, though she seemed uninterested in talking further with Ford about whatever she was hiding, and Ford found himself trying to get away. If he ever had to hear Danny Boy again —

Eventually, Fidds picked his way through the masses of leprecorns and reminded Ford that it was getting dark. Being out in the forest during the night was unwise, as the scientists had learned from experience, so they bid June farewell and left.

As Ford said his goodbyes, June laughed and told him to visit more often and then got serious again. "Just. . . be careful," she said.

Well, that wasn't very helpful. How could he be careful if he didn't know for what he needed to have care?

He did notice, though, that Fidds looked nervous on their way home. Was he worried about what June might have told Ford? The evidence of something strange with Fidds got stronger every day.

Lee pulled him out of his thoughts. "Thanks, Sixer — that was great!"

Ford smiled at his brother. Well, that's why he'd called Lee here, wasn't it? So he could have someone else to help with the situation.

When they got back to the lab, Fidds stormed up to the attic. Lee watched him go with eyebrows raised, but didn't say anything. "Well, what should I make for dinner?" he asked instead.

A minute later, Lee was in the kitchen, concocting another delicious meal. Ford hung around in the entry room, talking to his brother through the doorway and reveling in the aromas of the food. Soon enough, Fidds came back down the stairs, headed to the lab, returned, and went for the door.

"Don't leave, Fiddsy, I'm making dinner," Lee called.

"Save me some."

"Where ya goin'?"

"Away from you," came the acerbic reply. And with that, Fidds left, closing the door firmly behind him.

Lee looked affronted. "Geez, what did I do to deserve that?"

Ford checked out the window to make sure Fidds was really leaving. "I don't know, Stanley. I'm worried about him."

"Yeah, he must not make very many friends," Lee commented as he returned to the vegetables he was cooking.

"Not that kind of worried." Ford leaned against the entry arch to the kitchen. "Remember how I said there was a situation?"

"Yeah."

"It may be worse than I thought."

Lee flicked the frying pan with his wrist, and the grilling vegetables flipped over in their spices. "What did you think?"

Ford sighed. "I don't know, I was just. . . well, suspicious. He leaves like this a lot."

"Sixer, I love ya, but everybody needs their space. Even from you."

Ford waved a frustrated hand. "No, I know that. But he has this knitting club — or, he told me he goes to a knitting club. He joined it three years ago, supposedly." Before Lee could voice the skeptical expression on his face, Ford plowed on. " _But_ , this summer, I followed him to his club. And I didn't see where he actually went, but I went to the library, where the club was supposed to be, and asked about it. The club never existed. Fidds has been going to a fake knitting club this whole time."

"Huh." Lee added a dash of spice to his vegetables — he'd had to go buy the spices himself, since Ford only had salt and pepper. "I mean, I wouldn't go to a knitting club either, but I also wouldn't pretend I did."

"Lee, this is serious," Ford said, and it came out a bit snappish. He let out another frustrated sigh. "Fidds has been going somewhere else all these years, doing something else. Something he doesn't share with me."

"Maybe he has a girlfriend, and he doesn't tell you because he doesn't want you getting in between them."

Ford blinked, letting the concept wash over him. He. . . hadn't thought romance could be a factor. Of course, he never really thought about romance. It had just never occurred to him.

Lee took Ford's silence as an indication that he was right. "See, Ford, it's just your paranoia running away with you. In fact, that's probably why he's so hostile with me. He knows I'm competition." With that smug assertion, he dumped the vegetables into another pot and stirred the contents together.

Then Ford's brain caught up with him, and he thought this through. "No, that. . . that doesn't work. Fidds has this gun — not a gun with bullets, but some gun that he created, and he never shows it to me or explains it. But he leaves with it almost every time he goes to his so-called knitting club. That's probably why he went back to the lab, to get the gun." He cast his mind back, trying to remember if there had been a bulge under Fidds' tweed jacket.

"So. . ." Lee trailed off, unable to think of an explanation.

"And then today, Juniper's reaction when she saw him. . . She told me he was involved in some kind of conflict, but that he was on the wrong side. I don't know what she means."

He glanced to Lee for a response, but Lee was too busy grinning as he reminisced about June. "Stanley," Ford prompted.

"Right. Um, yeah, I don't know. Is that why you called me here? To spy on Fidds?" He transferred the pot to the table, placing it on a hot pad.

"You're here for lots of reasons — like cooking." Ford stole a chunk of meat from the concoction, snatching his hand away just before Lee could slap at it. "But, yes. I don't like calling it spying, but I figured I could use backup in. . . watching out for him. In making sure he doesn't do anything dangerous."

"We could just ask him what he's doing."

"You saw how volatile he is. What if he walks out on me? I need him to build the portal."

Lee leaned against the counter. "Okay, so you confront him, and he walks out on you, and you can't build the portal. Would that be so bad?"

Ford stared at him incredulously. "Absolutely! Juniper just told me today — there are things the creatures of the forest don't tell me. I need the portal to get answers."

"Okay, sure, it's important. Is it worth Fidds doing something dangerous without you knowing?"

"Depends on what that thing is," Ford replied. "Let's just watch him for a while. Maybe follow him to wherever he's going. See if we can get an idea of what he's doing, and if we need to step in."

Lee gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Just. . . don't do anything to make it worse, all right? Don't let him know we're onto him."

"Are we onto him?" Lee asked. "We don't even know what he's doing."

"We know he's not telling the truth."

"That's dangerous as it is."

Ford paused. He figured that, as a salesman, Lee would know the danger of deceptions. "Well, that's part of why you're here. I need someone to be straight with me."

Lee chuckled. "If there's anything I am, it's straight with people."

"Until you're scamming them out of their money."

"I don't  _scam_ people. I give them what they need. For a price."

"After you convince them that they need it?"

"You're catching on." Lee took a seat at the table. "Now c'mon, the food's getting cold. Let's eat."

Ford didn't need to be told twice. He sat, and the brothers ate a lovely meal together. And when Fidds returned hours later and heated up some leftovers with a sour disposition, neither Ford nor Lee said anything to provoke him.

Fidds didn't say anything either, not until he stood at the base of the stairs, ready to ascend to his attic room. "We're going to work on the portal again tomorrow, right?"

Ford looked up from his conversation with Lee on the couch. "Yes, of course," he said.

"Good." Fidds gave Stanley a final skeptical glance, as if doubting that he'd offer any help whatsoever on the portal. Then he walked upstairs without a word.

With that, the twins' previous conversation was thoroughly ruined. So Ford said good night and went to his room.

As he went to sleep that night, he thought over June's words. There was a conflict. . . what kind of conflict? Fidds was on the wrong side. . . of what? Why weren't the supernatural creatures ever straight with him?

His brain offered no solutions. Eventually, Ford fell asleep in his frustration.


	7. Chapter 7

Percy Pleasure sat at his desk in the Order headquarters, rubbing his forehead. He had plenty to do tonight — a few stacks of papers were pushed to the sides of the desk — but he needed a moment. He had just arrived from his home, where his thirteen-year-old son Patrick was reigning terror on the house. The young teen thought it would be a perfectly sound idea to go camping in the middle of the forest with his friends — and with no adults. This was, in reality, a terrible idea — even in forests _without_ magical creatures waiting to capture Patrick at any moment to gain an advantage over the Order. Percy had joined in the argument for a bit before he had to leave for the Order; then, he left his poor wife to deal with their moody son.

He sincerely hoped Patrick would mature into a good Order leader. Things were looking worrisome right now, but, well — Percy hadn't exactly been a model teenager either.

Percy's trouble with his son wasn't his only problem, far from it. Last night, Lord Cipher had visited his dreams, informing him about the arrival of Stanley Pines and the potential problems he brought with him. Stanley, it turned out, was a Symbol — the fourth Symbol to arrive in Gravity Rises, along with Stanford and Fiddleford and the young Ramirez girl. With only six more people, the prophesied Cipher Wheel could form, thereby ruining Bill's escape from this dimension.

 _That_ certainly could not happen.

So, Stanley's arrival was less than ideal. Another Symbol meant another person Gaston couldn't wipe with his amulet. And, of course, the very reason for the man's coming posed a significant problem.

Stanford was on the Order's trail, and he planned to bring Stanley in on it. Soon, they might discover them, and the memory gun wasn't ready yet. Bill forbid Percy from using the gun on the Symbols until it was perfected; at this point, it was a race between Fiddleford's completion of the gun and the brothers' investigation.

Percy wouldn't tell that to Fiddleford, however. Cipher and the Order leader had both agreed that Fiddleford was more efficient in his ignorance of the brothers' suspicions. Informing him would only fluster him, making him effectively useless — and more likely to give something away, besides.

A frantic knock sounded on Percy's office door. His rumination time was over.

"Come in, Fiddleford," he called, for who else could it be?

Sure enough, a red-faced Fiddleford burst through the door, his anxiety written across his face. "Master Pleasure, there's a situation. Stanford has invited—"

"Do you not think Lord Cipher informed me of this?" said Percy, his voice calm. "I am aware of Stanley's arrival. And I received instruction from our lord on what to do about it."

Relief swept through Fiddleford's countenance, though it was quickly overtaken by a frown. "Why didn't Lord Cipher visit me last night as well?"

Percy raised an eyebrow. "He and I were consulting. Do not think he is at your whim, to appear to you whenever you're worried."

Fiddleford look crestfallen. Percy winced inwardly at the overt nature of this man's emotions. It was a wonder he was able to keep the Order secret at all, considering how obvious he was.

"I'm. . . I'm sorry, Master Pleasure."

"You have great purpose with our lord, Fiddleford, but don't let it get to your head," said Percy in a mild rebuke. "Now, would you like to hear what he said?"

Fiddleford nodded eagerly.

"This Stanley Pines is a snarl in Cipher's plans, yes, but not a major one. In fact, Lord Cipher believes he can perhaps use Stanley to further his desires. Your instructions, then, are to stay out of his way."

Fiddleford's eyes widened. "Out of Stanley's way? What if he breaks the portal?"

"Well, of course you should protect the portal," Percy said. "The portal is our top priority. Keep Stanley from getting his hands on anything important, and keep Stanford's attention on the portal's construction. But don't be antagonistic, and don't do anything that may put the brothers in danger."

"I w-wasn't planning on hurting them."

"Good. Don't." At least, until you shoot them with your memory gun, he added silently. Aloud, he continued, "In the case of Stanley, wait and watch and work around him. Lord Cipher will give you more instruction as he sees fit."

Fiddleford nodded again, his movements slow.

"There's more."

Fiddleford perked up, looking simultaneously excited and terrified for whatever this new instruction may be. "Y-yes?"

"It's about Stanford. Lord Cipher thinks it's time that he terminate his partnership with him."

This statement was met with the disappointment that Percy had expected. "So we're not. . . we're not inducting him?" Fiddleford had carried the hope of his research partner joining the Order for some time.

"Perhaps we will eventually," Percy replied, "but not until the completion of the portal. Not until you've completed your assignment."

This response wasn't entirely fair, but Fiddleford didn't know that. See, if Stanford did become part of the Order, Fiddleford wouldn't be around to see it. For Fiddleford didn't know it yet, but Bill had plans for him that ran far deeper than simply the portal construction.

Fiddleford was to be Bill's vessel in his bid for freedom.

Why Bill had not yet informed Fiddleford of this, Percy did not know, but he knew it wasn't in his place to ask nor to tell Fiddleford himself. When it came time to reveal this assignment, Bill was confident that his vessel would accept it with pride.

After accepting Percy's deception with an unhappy nod, Fiddleford asked, "What am I to do, then?"

"You are to make it seem like Stanford's idea," Percy replied. "Lord Cipher will have almost nothing to do with it. Tell Stanford you think the two of you can take it from here. That Cipher has been helpful, but you can finish the portal by yourself. Stanford has always preferred independence; he'll want to move away from Cipher."

"If he prefers independence, why did he bring Stanley here?" Fiddleford asked sullenly.

"Because Stanley is his brother," Percy said, "and he wants his company."

"Was I not company enough?" came the pained reply.

He knew Fiddleford was venting his feelings of apprehension and betrayal, but it was still irritating. "Well, you have spent much of your time here at the Order," Percy pointed out.

Fiddleford looked away.

"Lord Cipher says Stanford has already developed some misgivings about his help," Percy added. "Not enough to be worrisome, but enough that he'd likely be happy to phase out contact."

Fiddleford tilted his head. "Maybe that's why he didn't explain Cipher to Stanley."

Percy sat up a little straighter. That was important news. "He hasn't?"

"H-he may have by now, I'm not sure," said Fiddleford, "but when he showed Stanley the portal, he attributed its success to my skill, not Cipher's assistance."

Percy nodded. "Perhaps he didn't want his brother judging him. I suspect this separation will cause relief that he doesn't have to explain Cipher to Stanley."

"May I ask," Fiddleford said tentatively, "why Lord Cipher wants this separation?"

Percy shook his head. "The reason is not at my discretion to share. You, of course, will not be separating. You will still consult with Cipher as usual. However, you will now present his ideas as your own."

After a moment's hesitation, "All right," Fiddleford said. For all the man's faults, at least he was quick to obey.

"Good," Percy said with a pleasant smile. "Lord Cipher will give you more instruction as needed. You are dismissed."

Fiddleford gave a slight bow, went to the door, then paused. He turned. "Wait, I — Forgive me, Master Pleasure, I forgot to tell you. We, um, we met with a nymph today."

Percy raised an eyebrow. "Did you?" He didn't quite know why this was significant, though nymphs in general were often troublesome.

"Y-yes, and she. . . she recognized me. I've never seen her before, but she must have known — s-somehow — that I was part of the Order. I saw her talking to Stanford after she saw me, but I couldn't hear, and — I worry what she may have told him."

Percy's mouth flattened into a thin line. "Bother."

"Do. . . do you think she—"

"If she told Stanford about the Order, he likely would've confronted you about it by now. As it is, I will ask Lord Cipher tonight what she said, for he knows. Either way, this makes it all the more important that Stanford stop consulting with Cipher. If he gets suspicious about him, he may want to stop work on the portal."

Fiddleford paled. Good — at least he understood that the portal was of utmost importance.

"So you see the priority of this new assignment," Percy concluded. "Do not forget, Fiddleford, the importance of this portal above all else."

"Of — of course, Master Pleasure."

Percy nodded in dismissal. "You may go. I do believe there is a townsperson in the memory room, and Gaston has been waiting for you to join them with the gun."

Fiddleford paled a shade further — Gaston was not known for his patience — and scurried from the room.

Percy let out a long sigh, as he often did after dealing with Fiddleford. The man was exhausting — but of course, Percy expressed this sentiment only to his wife. Anyone else could not be trusted to know what their leader truly thought about his subordinates.

Rather than tend to the stack of papers that awaited him, Percy leaned back in his chair. He wondered how Stanford would react to Fiddleford's suggestion that they cease consulting with Cipher. Percy's lord seemed to think it would go well. For his part, Percy wished that he could see the conversation. He had never met Stanford himself, but Cipher's descriptions had led to a sort of intellectual fascination with the man. He seemed competent, resourceful, intelligent — all good traits for the Order.

And quite worrying traits when levied against them.

Herein was the true reason Cipher had ordered a separation from Stanford. As Percy had told Fiddleford, their lord didn't want to risk that Stanford stop working on the portal. For if Stanford ever find out about Cipher's true self, he would possibly want to destroy the portal entirely.

That was not an option.

Unfortunately, the chances of Stanford discovering Cipher's cult was ever increasing, with the arrival of his brother and now with the meddling of that nymph. The sooner Stanford thought Cipher was no longer influencing the construction of the portal, the better: that way, if he ever stumbled upon the truth, he wouldn't suspect sabotage.

Or, that was the hope. Percy did not know how Lord Cipher could so confidently predict his enemies' behavior, but it was a good thing he could. For if anything got in the way of this portal, then Cipher's plan for liberation would be crippled. If that happened, what then?

Percy pushed that worry out of his mind and redirected his thoughts. Not for the first time, he imagined his reward when Cipher was free — for this anticipation always brought peace to Percy's mind.

No, he decided, nothing would get in the way of this project. Cipher deserved his freedom.

And Percy deserved his reward.

~~~~~

Just as Percy had predicted, Ford was happy to stop consulting with Bill. It was hard to get Ford alone — Stan was always tagging along, like an obnoxious shadow — but once he finally did, Fidds shared his confidence that they no longer needed Cipher. "I mean, his help has been amazing, but I think we can figure it out from here. Y-y'know, we don't want him taking credit for our accomplishments." He threw in this last part because he knew Ford so jealously guarded his achievements from anyone who might claim them as their own.

It worked. "I've actually had the same thoughts," Ford admitted. "And when Lee came, well. . . I just couldn't think of how to describe Bill to him. Do you really think we can do it alone?"

"Oh, absolutely," Fidds lied.

Ford smiled and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Good. I'm glad you've gotten more confident about your work."

The comment rankled Fidds. Since when was he not confident about his work? Did Ford see their consultation with Bill as a  _weakness_? Well, he was completely wrong. Bill made them  _stronger_. No matter how confident they were, they had done things that would've been  _impossible_ without Cipher. And they would do them still — but without Ford's awareness of their helper.

That night, Bill appeared in Fidds' dreams to report that it had worked. Ford had thanked Bill for his help, then said that they'd no longer be needing him. Bill, ever the flatterer, had accepted his thanks, wished him luck on the portal, and bid him a warm farewell.

"Just like that?" asked Fidds. The situation sounded so foreign to him. Not only because Ford had so casually cut ties with the most powerful being around, but because Bill had actually let it happen.

" **Just** like  **that** ," Bill confirmed. "Our progress will  **slow** a bit, since  **you're** the only one I'm  **consulting** with now, but the  **precautions** are  **worth** it."

Precautions for what, Fidds wanted to ask. But he knew Bill wouldn't tell him. Fidds was special, but he was still just an Order underling.

"I'm  **glad** you know your  **place** ," Bill said, as if Fidds had voiced his thoughts aloud. "But you're  **right** ,  **Portal-Bound**. You  **are** special.  **You** have been chosen to  **build the portal** , and more. I'm putting my  **faith** in  **you**."

Fidds swallowed and, belatedly, dropped into a deep bow. "Th-thank you, my lord. I won't let you down."

" **No** ," Bill agreed. "Seethat you  **don't**."


	8. Chapter 8

Autumn quickly blustered into winter, with the first snows falling only a few weeks after Stanley arrived. The researchers were quickly trapped inside, unable to go out adventuring — which was chafing for Lee, but good for the portal project. Yet Fidds still braved the snows, leaving weekly, sometimes daily, for his fictional knitting club. Ford and Lee trained in appearing impassive when he mentioned the club, and they took turns following him.

They quickly discovered where he was disappearing to: the library, of all places. So he hadn't been lying about that. But he didn't take the usual door into the library; he entered through a back door, then disappeared. Once, the brothers followed him together, with Lee watching Fidds go through the door, and Ford entering the library to look for him. But Fidds wasn't inside. The mystery door didn't give access to the library. So what was behind it?

Short of asking him, they likely weren't going to find out anytime soon.

Fidds, Stan, and Ford spent a long winter indoors, with Stan driving Fidds up the wall and Ford failing to keep his pesky brother in check. Fidds looked forward with longing to the next time he could go to the Order and escape Stanley; whenever that escape arrived, he had to return to the lab far too soon. His visits to the Order weren't exactly enjoyable: Fidds tested the gun on whoever was brought down, and a stone-faced Gaston stood nearby, speaking only when directly spoken to, or occasionally in rebuke. But even that was better than being near Stanley.

"Does he  _have_ to be in the basement while we're working?" Fidds would repeatedly ask Ford. Then Ford would shrug, and Stan would make some overdramatic comment about being shunned. This pattern continued throughout the rest of the winter, and Fidds nearly wept with relief when, in March of 1982, it got warm enough to go out into the forest. This came with the downside of the Pines brothers going adventuring instead of working on the portal, but at least Stan could go somewhere  _else_.

The spring weather cheered Stanley immensely, and he insisted that his brother take him to see the sights of the Gravity Rises forest. Sometimes, the brothers would convince Fidds to come with them; other times, Fidds would staunchly refuse, and the brothers would go without him. On those days, it was a relief for Fidds to have the lab to himself.

Soon enough, Stan convinced Ford to take him down to the bunker. "That place sounds cool," he said one day, down in the basement. "I mean, you wrote about it in all three Journals. That means it's gotta be important, right?"

Ford shrugged. "I described it in all three so I could always have the passcode and the layout handy, no matter what Journal I had with me that day."

"Didn't you keep creatures down there? Are they still there?"

Nearby, Fidds scoffed. "Really, Stanley? You arrived over half a year ago, and we haven't been to the bunker in all that time. Anything down there would have to have starved."

"Un _less_ ," Ford interrupted, "we preserved them. Which we did."

Fidds looked away with a disgruntled huff.

"Wait, what do you mean  _preserved them_?" asked Stan, concern lacing his voice.

Ford shrugged again, quite nonchalant. "When we started on the portal, we knew we wouldn't be able to go to the bunker anymore. So we let some of the creatures go, and we preserved others. I can describe it on the way."

"Wait, what?" demanded Fidds. "Now?"

"Why not?"

Fidds had a million reasons why not, but he deigned to express only one. "What about these calculations?"

"They can wait while we go get some sun."

"It's probably raining," Fidds muttered.

Much to his chagrin, it wasn't. He decided to come along, since he didn't trust Stanley near his things; and at this point, he didn't trust Ford to keep Stanley away from said things — namely, the machinery in the bunker. He hadn't been to the bunker in some time, but it was still one of his creations. He didn't want Stan's grubby hands all over it.

The trio went out into the forest and headed for the bunker. Even though the sun shone down from a cloudless sky, the ground was still quite wet from last night's rains. Fidds stepped gingerly through the mud; Ford took off his trenchcoat so it wouldn't drag in the muck; Stan happily galoshed in the worst puddles. A nostalgic smile whisked over Ford's face as he watched his brother, but Fidds thought the man was being obnoxiously childish.

Ford didn't end up explaining about the preservation, because Stan was too interested in the wet forest and the surrounding creatures and the balmy sun. Like an excited puppy: very annoying, with no attention span. It wasn't until they passed through the security room, into the observation room, that he remembered.

"So where are all the creatures? How have they been 'preserved'?"

Ford turned on the camera system; to Fidds' satisfaction, the computer easily flickered to life. Why shouldn't it? He had built it, after all.

Of course, it still took some time to boot up, given the speed of computers. "Sixer?" prompted Stan.

"I'm turning on the cameras so you can see."

"Well  _that's_ boring. And it's taking forever. Just take me to see the thing!"

Fidds pursed his lips. This man had no appreciation for the miracle of computers. Not that Fidds should've been surprised by this.

"Okay, fine." Ford led his brother to the decontamination chamber. "In here, then."

They entered the chamber together. Before, Fidds and Ford had fit in here just fine. Now, with a third man, it was rather cramped. Fidds pushed down the rising sense of claustrophobia and simply waited for the process to be over. It wasn't long before the door opened into the cave with the cryogenic tubes, and they spilled out of the tight space.

"What am I looking at?" asked Stan, having just gotten his first glimpse of the cryogenic tubes.

"Cryogenics," Fidds responded simply. "The creatures in there are all frozen, their vitals in limbo, waiting to be awoken."

Stan turned to him, his mouth in a perfect 'O'. "Wait, for real? Like in the sci-fi movies?"

Fidds bristled at having his very real inventions compared to very fake movies, but Ford gave a little laugh. "Better than that. Fidds is quite the genius."

Stanley walked up to the tubes and peered inside, seeing the various creatures in there. "Why didn't you just let them go?"

"We let most of them go. But we wanted to study these ones further, when we got the chance."

Stan frowned. "That's pretty inhumane."

"They're inhuman," Fidds pointed out, "and they're perfectly safe."

"Still, it's like you're robbing them of their lives." He leaned in to get a better look at the giant star-nosed mole they had frozen in one of the tubes. "These are pretty awesome, though."

"Exactly," said Ford.

Stan kept looking at the tubes, until he got to a specific tube. Fidds saw the silhouette, accompanied by a pang of dread, only a moment before Stan leapt back with a yell. "What—! Fidds is in there!" He looked rapidly between the real Fidds and the frozen imposter.

"Oh, right," said Ford. "That's a shapeshifter."

"A shapeshifter?" asked Stan, his voice inordinately loud. "Why does it look like Fidds?"

"He attacked me," Fidds said stiffly. "He tied me up and posed as me and tried to escape. He was the first one we froze in these tubes."

"When was this?"

"Back in '79," answered Ford.

"Huh. I wonder if he would've been more fun in a conversation than the real Fidds," Stan joked.

"Oh, shut your scrabdoodlin' mouth," Fidds snapped. Which only made Stan's grin widen at the strange expletive.

"Listen, Sixer, I think you should let these guys go." Stan gestured to various cryogenic tubes. "I mean, they're cool and all, but you're so focused on the portal thingie, and I don't know if it's right to keep them waiting for you to get back to them. Y'know?"

"It'll seem like no time to them."

"Yeah, but — look, once you get that portal open, you're not going to want to study anything here. I know you, Sixer. You're going to want to go through the portal and study things on the other side. Maybe even bring them back here. You either won't have time for this place, or you'll need the space for other stuff."

Fidds rolled his eyes. Oh, yes, Stanley. 'Other stuff' was such a technical term for referring to the secrets of the multiverse.

"You're just worried about the creatures," Ford argued.

Stan shrugged. "Sue me, I am. What would June think?"

"What does Juniper have to do with any of this?" Ford sounded irritated, which was unsurprising. Stan  _did_ have an annoying habit of bringing up June at the most random times. It was one of the ways he'd been torturing Fidds all winter, by pining after a nymph girl he only meant once before.

"You're kidnapping her people and freezing them!"

How ignorant could you get? "These aren't her people, Stanley," Fidds said. "They're from entirely different species. I don't think a hamadryad can be related to  _that_." He gestured to a nearby tube that held what looked like a giant pill bug, half-curled to fit in the tube.

Stan waved a dismissive hand. "She'd still care about them. The girl keeps the stuff of nightmares as pets, after all."

Well, Fidds couldn't disagree that the leprecorns were the 'stuff of nightmares,' but that was beside the point. "My cryogenic tubes can last for decades. But. . . I wouldn't mind releasing some of these specimens. It would help us stay focused on the portal." He gave Ford a pointed look as he said this last part.

Ford acknowledged him with a sigh, then turned to his brother. "At any rate, Lee, you're probably right that I won't have time for this place anytime soon. Okay. We can release them."

"Except the shapeshifter," Fidds said.

Stan put a hand on the shapeshifter's tube. "What? Why wouldn't you release poor Shifty here?"

Fidds raised his eyebrows. " _Shifty_?"

"Yeah, that's his name. Unless you two nerds already gave him one."

"Experiment Two-ten," Ford said helpfully.

"See, that's a lame name. You're lucky I'm here to help out."

"The name doesn't matter," Fidds spluttered. "We're not letting him out. Or are you forgetting that he attacked me? He can shapeshift into  _anything_ he sees. Can you imagine the chaos if he starts working mischief in the town? If he gets out to the rest of the world?"

"He won't get out. This place is like a bomb shelter. Look, we'll get a cage or something, put him in there, come take care of him so we don't go stir-crazy—"

"You're the only one who goes stir-crazy, Lee," Ford pointed out. It was a lie (Fidds knew from experience), but it was true that Stan got restless far easier than did his brother.

"Then I'll come out here and take care of him. Spend time with him."

"Get attacked by him," Fidds added. Though the more he thought about it, the more he liked that idea.

"Nah, he'll like me better," Stan said with egregious self-confidence.

He kept insisting that they unfreeze the shapeshifter, for whatever inane reason. Ford soon agreed, and Fidds decided to simply stay away when that happened. They released all the creatures, save the shapeshifter, that very afternoon. Many of the specimens were understandably discombobulated and snappish after their year-long nap, but Stan only laughed as they came alarmingly close to maiming him.

No wonder Ford didn't seem to understand Fidds' nervousness. He grew up with someone who had none.

So it was that Stan would often go out to the bunker, taking Ford with him much of the time, and sometimes Fidds as well. Fidds would bring along his laptop and calculations, so he could get some work done and consult with Ford in the observation room while Stan was in the cave with the shapeshifter. Though Fidds made it a point to never be in the same room as the shapeshifter, he'd watch the cameras at times. The way the Pines brothers treated "Shifty" as a pet was disgusting, to be frank. But there wasn't much Fidds could do about it, so he kept his nose in his work and his mouth shut.

He also started building a keypad for the Order, mainly using parts from around the bunker. With the gun almost being completed, he felt he could spend some time on this other project he'd been meaning to do for years.

He had no idea that completing the gun was all that could keep the Pines brothers from discovering his secrets.

Between working on the portal, going to the bunker to see Shifty, and going on other adventures (Lee had a pair of brass knuckles, and he was eager to use them on monsters), the brothers still found time to occasionally follow Fidds when he went to his 'knitting club'. As the months went on, they still couldn't discern where he was actually going. It was driving Stanley crazy, and he wanted to confront Fidds, but Ford held him back. The scientist was determined to figure things out for himself. After all, he'd given Fidds an opportunity to come clean last year, and the mechanic had shown that he wasn't going to give this up easily.

Whatever  _this_  was.

Finally, in May of 1982, it all came to a head. Fidds left for his club with a bulging satchel, and of course Ford had to follow him. What could be in there?

Stanley was out in the forest somewhere, presumably with Shifty. It was the middle of the afternoon, which added another layer of oddity to Fidds' behavior. Usually he went to his mystery room in the library at night. The daylight would make it harder to follow him, but Ford was determined. He quickly changed into a simple black shirt and jeans (given that his turtleneck and trenchcoat would make him stick out like a sore thumb) and left the lab only a few minutes after Fidds.

When he got to the library and went around to the back, Fidds was already gone. He had gone through the mystery door, then. Ford looked around, wondering where he could position himself to see Fidds exit without his friend seeing him.

His eyes alighted on the roof.

All right, that was all well and good, but how would he get up there? He had no idea how long Fidds would be in there — he had to act fast.

Fortunately, he did some theatre in high school, to give him a break from his scientific studies. He had an idea.

He went into the library and headed for the help desk. "Ma'am?" he asked the woman sitting there. "I'm from maintenance. I'm here for the air conditioner?" His tone didn't suggest that he was unsure of his purpose, but that he was unsure of the receptionist recognizing his purpose.

Of course, he didn't actually know if the AC had problems. But it was one of the hottest months of the year, and people often complained about their air conditioners even if they were working fine.

The receptionist blinked. "I don't remember calling for maintenance." She considered this. "Probably from a coworker, then. Do you know where to go?"

Ford shook his head sheepishly. "I was only told I needed to work on the roof. If you show me how to get up there, I'm sure I could figure it out from there."

The receptionist frowned. For a moment, Ford was worried she'd catch him in his act — receptionists were usually sharp people, after all, especially library receptionists.

"Where are your tools?"

"Outside. I'll get them in a moment, after I find the easiest way to get them up to the roof." It was a lame excuse, but it had to do.

Thankfully, he could see the suspicion gradually fade from the receptionist's eyes. She stood. "Follow me, then."

With her help, Ford got up to the roof. He gave her his thanks, then wondered how long he could stay up here, sans tools, without raising the alarm. He positioned himself on the edge of the roof, directly above the mysterious back door, and waited for Fidds to reappear.

He didn't have to wait long, as it turned out. Fidds soon exited the door, but he didn't immediately head for the lab. Instead, he walked around, peering into different areas.

Ford realized he was looking for spies and ducked back.

"It's all clear," he heard.

He carefully inched forward until he could see over the edge again. Fidds was holding the door open for another person. Ford's heart sped up.

A middle-aged man in a purple robe emerged from the mystery door.

_What?_

"I don't want to be out here for long in my robes, Fiddleford," the man said. "What is it you wanted to show me?"

"Here, I — I have it right here." Fidds opened his satchel and pulled out some kind of device. 

To be honest, Ford felt a little disappointed. He was expecting something more. . . showy. But then he had to roll his eyes at himself. This was Fiddleford, after all. Wasn't he most likely to carry around his machines?

"It looks great," the stranger in purple said. "I'll have to admit I don't know anything about machines, though. Why are you risking my being discovered to show this to me out here?"

Ford could almost hear Fidds' gulp from here.

"I had questions about the installation. The lock — it's more than just this box. I'll have to wire it into the entire door."

"And risk exposure?"

"W-w-well, M-Master Pleasure, it'll be worth the risk. Instead of carrying keys that could get lost or stolen, each member could simply memorize a passcode to get in. I've, um, talked with Cipher about it — he approves."

Ford frowned. Cipher?

"Yes, he's told me not to get in your way." The stranger sighed. "Scrabdoodle, I don't like it. But I'll help."

Fidds paused, and Ford imagined his blank blink when he was confused. "Sir? When did you start saying 'scrabdoodle'?"

When the stranger replied, it was with amusement in his voice. "I've picked it up from you, I suppose. One of your many accomplishments since you joined us." The amusement dissipated somewhat. "What are your questions for me? I should get back inside before some unsuspecting tourist wanders back here."

Fiddleford recovered from the shock of someone assimilating the pseudo-curse word into his vocabulary (though even Ford had to admit to thinking it to himself at times). "These hinges here — could they be mechanized, do you think? Or would I need to build an entirely new door?"

Ford stayed and listened to the rest of their conversation, but Fidds and this "Master Pleasure" character didn't give any more clues as to what was going on. Eventually, Master Pleasure went back through the mystery door, and Fidds set to work installing his machine.

And Ford was left to wonder what on earth had just happened.

A strange man. Stranger purple robes. Mentions of Fidds joining something — mentions of Bill Cipher. Or, he assumed it was Bill, for he knew of no other Ciphers. What did Ford's old muse have to do with any of this? He hadn't even thought about him for months.

Juniper's voice, from so many months ago, floated into his head. "There's a conflict, running deeper than you can know. . . . Your friend has gotten into it — and he's on the wrong side."

Of course. Ford knew who he could go to. Maybe now she'd give him some real answers.

He left Fidds to his project and went back down to the library proper. Time was of the essence — who knew how long Fidds would be here? He hurried to past the receptionist's desk; when she called after him in confusion, he said over his shoulder, "I'm not a criminal, I promise!"

It'd have to be good enough.

He was careful to blend in with the crowds of tourists on the streets, in case Fidds came out from behind the library. There certainly were a lot of tourists in the burgeoning summer — Stanley had been talking about turning part of the lab into a tourist trap, which Ford vehemently denied to him. It probably would attract a lot of people, though.

Ford walked through the crowd until he was by the lab, then hurried inside to grab his trenchcoat for warmth, his stun gun for security, and the third Journal with a pen to record any answers June gave him. With those supplies, he left the lab and ran for the forest.

The woods went by in a blur. As he stumbled into the leprecorn clearing, Ford called, "Juniper! June, I need to talk to you."

The juniper tree rippled, and its namesake stepped out of its branches. "Fordsie? It's been half a year!"

"Yes, I know, I'm sorry I never visit. But now I need answers."

June narrowed her eyes. "What kind of answers?" she asked, sounding like she had an idea.

"I need to know what Fiddleford McGucket is involved in," he said. As he said it, he wondered why he didn't come visit Juniper earlier and ask about it. But he'd been busy and distracted and — well, he wasn't expecting his friend to be doing anything  _that_  bad. Not that he had proof of something bad, not even now. He just had. . . a really bad feeling, after what he'd seen.

Juniper led him away from the clearing, away from the leprecorns. "What did you see?" she asked.

So Ford described it. There wasn't much to tell, and it made even less sense when he said it out loud, but he managed. "And they mentioned Cipher," he finished. "Bill Cipher, I assume. I don't know if you know him, he's—"

"Oh, I know him," June said, and the gravity of her voice was stronger than Ford had ever heard from her. "What do you think he is?"

Ford frowned. "A muse. A business partner. He once helped me with my work, but I haven't seen him since around the last time I saw you."

June just stared at him as a mask of sadness and alarm descended upon her face.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should've told you more. It's just. . . the more you know, the more he can use you. Take Percy Pleasure. He knows the most of any human, and he's Cipher's righthand man."

Ford put up his hands. "Please, June, I don't understand. What's going on?"

She pursed her lips. "Maybe you should sit down."

He pulled out his Journal and readied his pen over a blank page. "Tell me," he replied stubbornly, without sitting.

So June told him. She told him about the Order of the Crescent Eye, about the mind-wiping, about the true nature of Bill Cipher.

And she told him what he needed to do to keep himself safe from this demon.


	9. Chapter 9

When Ford didn't come home, Lee became seriously worried. The sun was setting, and Ford was nowhere to be seen. Surely he wasn't out adventuring? The one thing Ford had instilled in Stanley since his arrival was that he should always be home by sunset. The forest could get very dangerous at night. So where was Ford?

Lee's suspicions easily landed on Fidds' shoulders.

"You must know where he is," he said. "You were here when I got back from the bunker. Where's Ford?"

"I don't know," Fidds said for the umpteenth time. "I was at my knitting club for most of the afternoon, I haven't—"

"Oh, cut the scrabdoodle, Fiddleford," Lee snapped, twisting the word cruelly with his tone. "We all know you're not going to a knitting club."

Fidds' eyes widened. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Not even going to try to deny it, huh?"

"What do you know?" Fidds finally asked.

"I know you've been lying to us. I know you care more about your life's work than you do about my brother. Where is he?"

"I don't know!" cried Fidds, exasperated. "I haven't seen him since earlier this afternoon! I'm not lying about that!"

"Then we've gotta go find him." Lee went to the kitchen and grabbed a large flashlight from a cupboard, slipping his brass knuckles onto his fingers from where they sat in his pocket. "You're coming with me, Fiddsy, don't try to get out of it."

"Shouldn't we wait until morning?"

"He could be dead by morning!" Lee shouted.

Fidds held up his hands. "It's dark. We have no idea where to start looking. The forest is going to be just as dangerous for us as it is for him. If he's out there, he would've taken supplies. He can get to the bunker for safety, or hide out with some of the friendlier creatures out there. He'll be fine."

"Or maybe you just want to get rid of him."

"What? No!" This was too much for Fidds. "Your brother is my best friend, Stanley! It's  _you_  I want to get rid of!"

The two men stood in the living room, glaring daggers at each other.

"Well," Lee finally said, "you can try to off me while we go look for Ford. Come on."

He took his supplies and walked out.

~~~~~

Fidds didn't follow Stanley.

Everything was crashing down around him. He couldn't be around Stanley or Stanford or anyone. He needed guidance.

He needed Bill Cipher.

So, instead of helping Stan look for his brother, Fidds went to bed. He took some herbal tea to help him sleep, but it was extremely hard to fall asleep when you knew you'd been found out. Fidds found himself desperately practicing the meditation techniques that he learned from Lilith Crypt, wishing he could fall asleep and dream and talk to Cipher.

Luckily, Stan didn't come back looking for him. Fidds finally fell asleep.

 **"He followed you,"** Bill said, appearing as soon as Fidds started dreaming. He made no pretense; he didn't even tell Fidds he was dreaming. " **Ford followed you** to the  **Order** , and he  **saw Percy**."

The words yanked Fidds into lucidity, and the dream world spun around him. " _What?_  I — I searched the area!"

"He was on the  **roof** ," Bill said. " **Nobody**  ever looks  **up**. I shouldn't have  **expected** anything  **better** from  **you**. Now,  **Percy**. . .  **he'll** receive his  **censure.** "

Fidds shivered, not wanting to know what Bill meant by that.

"Now  **Sixer's** run away to the  **nymphs** ," Bill continued. "They've put a  **metal plate** in his head to  **keep me out**. So far, it  **seems** it's  **worked**. After their  **operation** , he dropped  **completely** off my  **radar**."

Fidds' heart dropped. "So you can't tell me where he is?"

"I only know where he  **was**  before those  **meddling nymphs**  got their hands on him. I can't see through the minds of the  **nymphs**. I can only see through  **humans**."

Fidds had been previously unaware of this fact, but it didn't much matter. "What about Stanley?"

" **Yes** , I can still see  **him**  — he hasn't gone and stuck a  **disk of rust** in his  **noggin**. He's  **blundering through** the forest. I'm not  **too worried** about  **him**. The  **nymphs** have  **Sixer** in an area that's generally  **hidden** to  **humans**."

At first Fidds thought this was a bad thing, but then he realized that the worst-case scenario here wasn't Stanley failing to find his brother. It was Stanley getting a metal plate in his own head. Whatever plans Bill had to further his desires through Stanley, a barrier to the man's mind would destroy them all.

"You need to go  **after** them."

"Wh-what?"

"You have to  **find** the  **nymph hideout** and stop  **Stanley** from getting a  **metal plate**."

"But — they'd never listen to me! They knew I was lying about my activities! If I tell Stanley not to get a metal plate, that means he's  _more likely_ to get one."

Bill sighed. " **True**." He looked deep in thought.

A realization hit Fidds. "Wait. . . Lord Cipher? Wouldn't you have known that. . . that they suspected me?"

Bill watched him through half-lidded eyes. " **Yes** , I  **knew**.  **Percy and I** decided  **not** to tell you, or you'd probably make it  **worse**."

A deep sense of shame swept through Fidds, made all the more potent by the fact that Bill was right. "I'm. . . I'm sorry, my lord."

"I  **can't tell** if we  **miscalculated**  yet," Bill replied, neither accepting nor rejecting the apology. " **Either way** , this is still a  **disaster**.If your  **memory gun** doesn't  **work** through the  **metal plate** , we're all in  **big trouble**.  **Stanford** knows  **all about** the  **Order**  now."

Fidds' heart sank further. "Oh no."

" **Oh no, indeed.** I would've  **inducted** him in on my  **own time** , but  **now** he's been  **forever tainted** by those  **nymphs**. We  **need** to  **erase**  those memories. And  **rip out** the  **pages** in his  **Journal** where he  **wrote down**  my  **secrets**."

"I. . . I'll go after him. I'll take the memory gun. I'll fix this."

"There's no  **fixing it** ," Bill said. "There's only  **damage control**. We're just  **fortunate** you  **finished the gun** this month."

At least there was that. At least Fidds hadn't failed there. But that success seemed like nothing compared to his other failures that now came to light.

"I've been  **prolonging** your  **dream cycle** ," Bill said, "and I  **can't hold it**  for much longer. As  **soon**  as you wake up, you  **get out there** and  **find my Symbols**. Lead them  **away** from the  **nymphs** and then use your  **gun** on them.  **Understood?** "

"Y-yes, Lord Cipher."

**"Good."**

With that, Bill flashed a bright yellow and disappeared, taking Fidds' dream cycle with him.

Fidds was thrown into a senseless darkness.

~~~~~

Ford woke up blearily.

The early summer sun shone sideways through the trees. He was outside. What was he doing outside?

Then he remembered.

He shot upright. "June?"

A nearby tree shimmered, and Juniper stepped out of it. It wasn't her usual tree — they were far away from that — but hamadryads could apparently travel through a network of trees shared among their sisters. "Stanford? How are you feeling?"

Ford put a hand to his head. It was astonishing to think that, if the nymphs were successful, there was now metal coating his skull. "I'm. . . I'm okay. I think. Did it work?"

"You now have a metal plate inside your head," June confirmed. "Whether or not it keeps Cipher away is yet to be seen."

Ford's mind reeled with the rush that comes from major, life-altering decisions such as this. When June had told him about the operation, he'd been skeptical, thinking he could handle Bill by himself. After all, the triangle hadn't appeared to him in almost a year; was there really that much danger? But then she told him that Bill could see through every human, so that it was impossible to hide information from him. She told him that Bill played the long game, that he didn't mind waiting to complete his objectives. She told him that Bill often succeeded in tricking his most vehement rivals because, though it was impossible for him to lie, he had the art of flattery and deception down almost to perfection.

With that, Ford had agreed. He didn't want  _anyone_ using his mind besides himself.

He moved to get up, and June held out a hand to assist him. He grabbed it and used it to steady himself. Then he turned to address the dryads and hamadryads standing around him. "Thank you. I'd better get back. Stanley is going to be worried."

Last night, June had told him the operation would knock him unconscious. But it had still been afternoon — he'd assume he would wake up in time to go home. It wasn't until he was halfway under the sleep spell that he thought to ask how long he'd be asleep. "Probably until morning," one of the nymphs had replied.

He hadn't had time to protest before he was out like a light.

"Hey, um — June," called a nearby hamadryad. She stumbled on the moniker; to Ford's chagrin, they all insisted on hiding their real names. "Someone's calling for you at your tree."

June glanced at Ford. "Probably your brother. We'd better go meet him." She held out her hand again.

Ford's stomach flipped. To get here yesterday, June had pulled Ford through the trees with her. It was a fascinating experience, to be sure, but he'd felt quite nauseous afterward. The thought of traveling through the trees again, with a light headache this time thanks to the metal plate, was not appealing. He stalled for time by turning to the other hamadryad and asking, "How did you know someone was by Juniper's tree?"

The hamadryad shrugged. "When we're in our trees, we can see and hear through the whole network. The man did look like you, Stanford."

The thought of seeing and hearing that much made Ford feel dizzy. "Let's go, then," he said, reluctance lacing his voice as he braced himself for the coming discomfort.

He took June's hand. She led him to the nearest tree, and the two of them melted into its branches.

Sure enough, the magical travel was even more disconcerting this time. Ford's body felt to be moving extremely fast, with airless wind rushing by him and glimpses of the forest streaking past. Then he slammed to a stop. The now-stationary forest spun around him as he stumbled against June.

"Sixer!"

Ford was thrown off kilter again as Lee gripped him in a tight hug. "Where  _were_ you? I've been looking for you all night!"

"What?" Ford pulled back and looked at his brother in disapproval. "Didn't I tell you not to be out in the forest at night?"

"I thought you were in danger, Stanford! I'm going to ignore your instructions to save your life!"

Ford put out a calming hand. "I'm fine. I was with June."

"Where were you?"

Ford shared a glance with June. "Safe," he told his brother. "I'll tell you later. Let's go, I'm starving. Didn't have dinner last night."

"Is he going to want one too?" asked June.

Lee frowned. "Want what?"

"He doesn't know Cipher exists," Ford said to June. "I doubt he'll want one. He'll probably be mad at me for getting one."

"Getting  _what_?"

"Well, if he does, you know where to find me," June said, ignoring Stanley. "For all our sakes, Stanford, I hope it works."

"Me too," Ford said softly.

June waved to the brothers, then stepped back into her tree.

"What was  _that_ about? What were you two doing last night?"

A few leprecorns scampered up, and Ford grimaced down at them. "Let's go back to the lab," he said to Lee.

"Actually. . . can we go to the bunker?"

Ford shot him a questioning look. "Sure."

So the brothers left June's tree, headed for the bunker. On the way, Ford explained the situation as best he could: the Order of the Crescent Eye, Bill Cipher and his true nature, and the metal plate in Ford's head. As he suspected, Lee was not happy about that. "You let the nymphs do a  _surgery_ on you?"

"They didn't cut me open," Ford said, though he didn't actually know that. Perhaps they had done just that and healed the damage afterward. "It was with magic. I was perfectly safe."

Lee acknowledged this was a grunt. "And does it work? Is this Cipher guy out of your head?"

"I don't know," Ford confessed. "I suppose if he doesn't show up in my dreams again, then it worked. He'll still be able to see through you and Fidds and everyone else, though. That's why June offered to do the operation on you — to shut him out of your mind."

"No thank you," Lee responded vehemently. "I'll take my chances." He shook his head, then glanced sideways at his brother. "I can't believe you sometimes, Sixer," he said. "You just disappeared for a night to get a magical head surgery, and now you expect me to act like everything is normal."

"Of course everything isn't normal," Ford said. "We just found out that Fidds is in a  _cult_ , for crying out loud."

Lee clenched his jaw and muttered, "Huh. 'What do you know,' he asks. No wonder he looked so panicked."

"What?" Apprehension crept into Ford's voice.

Lee looked guilty all of a sudden. "I told Fidds that we knew he was lying last night," he admitted. "He claimed he was at his knitting club when you disappeared, and I was tired of pretending to believe him."

"Stanley! What if he goes to the Order, and they come after us?"

"The Cipher guy knows we know, apparently, so why should it matter if I tell Fidds we know?" Lee shot back.

He was right. There wasn't much they could do at this point.

Ford hadn't felt so helpless in a long time.

They made it to the bunker and descended the stairs in silence. It wasn't until they made it through the security room that Ford spoke. "So why did we come here?"

"Shifty," said Lee. He gestured for Ford to follow, and they went through the decontamination chamber together. "I had to refreeze him."

Sure enough, Shifty was back in one of the cryogenic tubes, frozen in his normal white form. Ford took in the broken cage nearby and marveled that Lee had been strong enough to subdue the creature all on his own. "What happened?"

"He had already broken out of the cage by the time I got down here. He attacked me and demanded I release him into the wild." Lee looked away. "Honestly, Sixer, I was tempted to do it. It must've been awful for him down here, stuck underground with nothing but artificial lights and occasional visits from us."

"I'm glad you didn't," Ford said. "Imagine what would've happened if he'd gotten loose. Bill could have used him for the Order. He could easily have thrown the world into chaos."

Lee nodded, but he still looked sad. Ford understood. Shifty had been like a pet to both of them, Lee especially. "I'm sorry, Stanley," he said, and he meant it.

There was a pause, then Lee shrugged. "It's fine. I'm just glad I could stop him. And I'm glad you're safe, Sixer."

Ford smiled wryly. "Me too."

Lee put his arm around him, and the brothers walked back through the bunker, discussing how they would approach Fidds about all this.

To their surprise, Fidds was at the base of the bunker stairs, waiting for them.

He looked just as startled to see them as they were to see him. He fumbled with something in his hands. "Fiddleford?" asked Ford in alarm as Fidds raised the gun.

He shot both the brothers in quick succession.


	10. Chapter 10

The Pines brothers fell to the ground with twin 'thuds', and Fiddleford felt sick.

What was he doing? Did he really just shoot his friend? He didn't feel much better over shooting Stanley, either, even though it was something he'd thought about doing many times before. It was only the memory gun, not a real gun, but the momentary look of panic on the brothers' faces would stick around in Fidds' mind for some time.

What have I become?

He braced his hands on a nearby desk and forced himself to take deep breaths. What he needed to. He became what he needed to be for Lord Cipher.

Once Fidds had sufficiently calmed down, he stepped over the unconscious brothers and went through the security room to go check on the shapeshifter. He didn't know what he would do to the creature, but he had to get rid of him somehow. For one, he was a distraction. For two, he was dangerous — and Fidds didn't trust Stanley not to release his precious pet into the world.

Thankfully, he found the shapeshifter already frozen in a cryogenic tube. The busted cage nearby told him that Stanley had probably had to fend off an attack.

Well, Stanley, now you finally see why I hate this thing so much.

Fidds took his time returning to the first room, for he dreaded his next task. He had shot the brothers with his memory gun, using  _The Order of the Crescent Eye_  as the input phrase; now, he needed to rip out the Journal pages that Ford had written about Bill.

This was even less appealing than the first task.

But, he did it. He took Ford's journal to the desk and ripped out the pages that mentioned the Order or Bill, stuffing them in his pockets. It pained him immensely, destroying parts of a scientific record, but he had to do it. He had to erase any evidence of this disaster.

Once he got started, it got a little easier — just a little. He even decided to rip out the pages about Shifty, in hopes that Ford would forget the creature's existence and never unfreeze him.

As Fidds moved to rip out the final page, his arm moved too far and too fast. His wrist snagged against a jutting piece of metal, and it cut into his skin. Fidds let go of the half-torn page with a cry of pain as blood spurted down onto the paper.

Someone moaned.

Fidds whirled, clutching his arms to his chest, and saw Ford stir. Panic infused him as he imagined Ford's reaction to seeing Fidds ripping pages out of his Journal. He slammed the book closed and dropped it by Ford. Just in time, too: the scientist sat up only moments after Fidds had stepped back.

"Fidds?" asked Ford. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?" he replied nervously, pulling the sleeve of his tweed jacket over his bleeding wrist.

Ford frowned. "Stanley showed me Shifty, frozen in the cryogenic tube. That's. . . that's the last thing." He glanced to his brother, who had also woken.

Fidds breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad you remember that much. He hit you pretty hard."

"Who did?"

"The shapeshifter," Fidds replied. "The cryogenic tube malfunctioned, and he woke up. He attacked both of you and knocked you unconscious. I was just lucky to be here, looking for you, when it happened. I forced him into another tube, froze him, and dragged you both back out here." He cast a baleful eye on Stanley. "You were quite heavy."

All of this, of course, was a lie. But Fidds had gotten better at lying over the years.

"How do you know the other cryogenic tube won't malfunction?" asked Ford.

"I checked to make sure. It was just the one tube that was faulty."

He hadn't actually moved the shapeshifter to another tube, only gone back to make sure the creature was out of commission. He had to hope the brothers wouldn't check.

Stan sighed heavily. "Poor Shifty. I'm gonna miss you."

"Miss him?" asked Fidds incredulously. "He's attacked all three of us now, and you're going to miss him?"

Stan shrugged and said nothing.

The trio went back to the lab, and Fidds buzzed with nervousness. Would Ford actually forget the Order? He seemed to have forgotten the first few minutes before Fidds had shot him, so the gun had had  _some_ effect. And even if Ford hadn't forgotten, Stanley surely had, though Fidds didn't know how much Ford had told him. Better safe than sorry.

Then Ford spoke up. "Hey, Fidds. . . Lee tells me that you know we suspect your activity. Your knitting club that isn't a knitting club. I didn't want to confront you about it, but. . . what  _have_ you been doing, all this time?"

Worry and relief shot through Fidds all at once. Relief because Ford seemed to have forgotten the Order. Worry because he now had to come up with an excuse. "I. . . uh. . . I'm sorry, Stanford, I should've told you, but — well, I was scared."

"Of what? What have you been doing?"

"Going to an inventor's club," Fidds blurted.

Ford frowned. "What?"

"I — I've been going to an inventor's club, here in town. I didn't want to tell you because I thought you'd be mad at me. I shouldn't be building things outside of our projects. Th-they're distracting me. I've even been going during the day to talk about exciting new discoveries, and it takes away from our work. But it's such a fun group, and there are some really nice people, and I didn't want to stop going, even after we started the portal."

Ford stopped and stared at his research partner. Fidds squirmed under his gaze.

"Fidds," he finally said, "do you still not trust me?"

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean. . . I didn't judge you when I found out about your dream journal. I haven't judged you for anything else. Of course it's all right to have personal projects outside of our work."

Next to him, Lee snorted. "Dream journal? Nerdy inventor's club? No wonder you didn't want to tell us."

Ford glared at his brother. "I keep a dream journal too, Stanley; it's nothing to laugh at. And I think an inventor's club is a fine pastime."

Lee held up his hands in surrender.

After that, the brothers didn't ask questions about Fidds' visits to the Order. Bill quickly confirmed that Lee had no more suspicions. " **But** ," he said, "you should probably  **shoot him again**  to make him forget about  **me**. He may not know about the  **Order**  anymore, but  **Sixer** repeated to him what the  **nymphs** said about me. It created  **networks of fear** in his  **subconscious**. If I want  **Stanley** on  **my side** , he  **can't** remember me."

"Should I shoot Ford, too?" asked Fidds. "He probably has those same networks, maybe stronger."

Bill considered this. " **No** ," he finally said. "This is  **why** I stopped  **consulting** with him, you  **see**? I was planning  **ahead** to a  **disaster** such as this.  **Now** ,  **Sixer** will be  **afraid** of me — as  **everyone** should be — but he  **won't**   **stop working on the portal**. He doesn't remember  **why**  he's afraid of me, and so long as you don't  **mention** me to him, he  **shouldn't** have any  **qualms**. Of  **course** , if he  **does** want to stop work on the portal because of  **me** , you're welcome to  **shoot him**."

Thankfully, Ford said nothing about Bill and showed no hesitations with the portal. Fidds had no idea what he remembered — did he even remember the existence of his new metal plate? — but it didn't much matter, because it didn't get in the way of their work. And, once Fidds made Lee forget about Bill, there was no protest from that end, either.

Ford did get considerably more paranoid. But that worked to Fidds' advantage: it translated into less expeditions into the forest, and Ford quickly developed a feverish drive to complete the portal. Fidds didn't understand why — shouldn't this paranoia be against the portal? Bill, however, hypothesized that something in Ford's subconscious had focused his fears of Bill onto the portal; but instead of manifesting as an aversion, they manifested as a greater obsession. Since Ford no longer knew the root of his anxieties, he latched onto the portal as a potential solution to them.

Of course, Bill couldn't see into Ford's mind to confirm this — he just had some very good guesses.

May yawned into June, which puttered into July. Finally, in August, the portal was ready.

The lab was tense with nerves. Ford kept pushing for them to open the portal, his manner rife with some unplaceable anxiety. One night, as Fidds worked under one of the bulky gauges to tighten up some loosening bolts, he could hear Ford and Stan arguing.

"Sixer, let's wait, okay? Let's just go to bed. It'll still be here tomorrow. We can do more research into exactly what will happen if we turn it on."

"No, Lee, we have to open it  _now_."

"Why?"

"I don't know! But we have to!"

"Sixer—"

Fidds heard a buzzer.

Wait, did Ford just turn the portal on? Without him? Fidds was about to roll his mechanic's creeper out from under the gauge—

Then a very strange thing happened.

He couldn't explain it. Though his body didn't move, it seemed to lighten. If he moved a muscle, he felt he might fly away — even though he was thoroughly nestled between the gauge and the creeper. Slowly, his weight shifted, and Fidds felt as if he were resting on the gauge instead of the ground.

With all the parts jutting from the gauge's surface, this was quite uncomfortable.

"Ford?" he called. "Are you okay?"

"Don't move, Fidds!" his research partner replied.

"We're on the ceiling!" Stanley added.

How did  _that_ happen? Fidds waited out an uncomfortable few minutes until his body resettled on his creeper and Ford told him he could come out. He pushed on the gauge to roll the creeper out from under the machine. "What just happened?" he asked as he got to his feet.

"Gravity disappeared," Ford reported.

"And then flipped upside down!"

Fidds stared at the brothers in disbelief. "Gravity can't do that."

Stanley laughed rudely. "C'mon, Fidds, you've been here way longer than I have — even  _I_ know that anything goes in Gravity Rises!"

"Will it happen again?" asked Fidds, ignoring Stanley.

"I suspect we'll have a lot more gravitational anomalies in the next eighteen hours," Ford replied. He gestured up at the overhead screen, where a large red timer counted down:  **17:56:34. 17:56:33. 17:56:32.**

And that was the start of the gravitational anomalies.

Fidds felt like this was all going too fast. It was the middle of the night, which meant the portal would be open by tomorrow evening. Lord Cipher only had eighteen hours to make his escape through the portal — and he probably needed to give Fidds more instruction!

He excused himself to bed soon after that. ("See, Sixer? If he's going to bed, we can too!" said Stan, to which Ford replied, "You're welcome to go to bed whenever you'd like, Stanley.") Fidds went up to his attic room and tried to calm himself, but he was anxious to get to sleep and converse with Bill. The fear of more gravitational anomalies didn't help soothe his worries.

Those fears weren't unfounded, either. Every time gravity changed, his equilibrioception went into a panic, pulling him back to consciousness. It felt like hours later when he finally fell asleep.

"You're  **dreaming** ,  **Portal-Bound** , and we  **don't have much time**."

Bill's abrupt greeting almost woke Fidds all over again. Thankfully, though, he was pulled into lucidity, no doubt kept in REM sleep by Bill's power over the mind. He bowed. "Lord Cipher, I'm sorry, I couldn't stop him from turning it on." Ford hadn't even consulted him — that still stung.

" **No matter**. It's  **time** to tell you about your  **true purpose**."

Fidds blinked. "My. . . my true purpose, Lord Cipher?"

" **Yes**. You have  **done well** in  **building this portal**. Now I have  **another** assignment."

"What is it?" His excitement mounted — along with his nervousness.

"To  **enter**  the portal, I need a  **vessel** ," Bill said. "A  **body**."

Fidds frowned in confusion. "You want me to build you a body? Isn't it too late for—"

" **No** ,  **Portal-Bound**. I'm going to use  **your** body."

The colors of the dream world muddied in Fidds' vision. "What?"

"We will make a  **deal** ," Bill said, "and I will  **possess** you. I will  **ride your body** to my  **freedom**."

Nervousness exploded in Fidds' mind.

"I  **know** you're  **scared** ," Bill said, and his multi-layered voice was calming. "It's an  **honor** , I  **assure** you. You will be the  **first human** to enter  **my dimension**. I'll move your  **body** through the  **portal** , and you'll  **follow** as a  **ghost**. Then I'll be  **free** , because of  **you**. You can be at my  **right hand**.  **Together** , we can  **rule dimensions**."

His vision clouded. This was so much—

**"Portal-Bound. Fiddleford. Look at me."**

Fidds fixed his gaze on Bill, and the rest of the dream world settled around them. Bill was a beacon with which to soothe Fidds' harried thoughts.

" **This** is why. You are  **Portal-Bound**. Not only bound to  **build** the portal, but bound to  **enter** it."

Enter it. He was really going to enter it? Bill would give him that honor?

"This is your  **destiny** ," Bill said. " **Lilith** would be  **so proud**."

These were the words that convinced him. A sense of empowerment swept through Fidds, chasing away his insecurities. Yes. . . yes, he was meant for this. He was  _destined_ for this. He was  _Portal-Bound._

Bill put out a hand, and it lit up in blue flame. " **Shake on it** ," he said. "If you let me  **take over your body**  tomorrow, I will give you an  **unimaginable reward** on the  **other side**."

A thrill of nervousness shot through him. But it was accompanied by exhilaration.

Fiddleford took Bill's hand.

" **Excellent** ," Bill said. "Now, there is  **something else**. Something to do with  **Stanley**."

"He's not joining us in the portal, is he?" Fidds asked in alarm.

Bill chuckled. "What?  **No**. This is  **your** honor. He's going to  **stay here** , but there's something I need you to  **do to him** before we  **leave**. What do you think would  **happen**  if you typed in someone's  **name** , then  **shot them**  with the memory gun?"

Fidds frowned. "I don't know. We've never tried it. It could erase their name. . . or it could erase their entire identity."

"I need you to  **test that** ," Bill said. "On  **Stanley**."

Fidds stared at him. "Wh-what?"

" **Type in** his name.  **Shoot** him. Then  **I'll** check what the  **results** are."

"Wh. . . why?"

"I have my  **reasons** ," Bill said. "Will you  **do this**  for me?"

The colors seeped from the dream world. Would he? Could he do something that risky? Did Bill really want to erase Stanley's memory entirely?

"If you  **don't** ," Bill continued, " **I** will. When I  **possess** you."

Fidds took a deep breath. "I. . . I'll try, my lord. I may need your help, but. . . I'll try."

Bill regarded him with a half-lidded gaze. " **Good**." He gave Fidds more instructions on exactly what to do to prepare for their departure, then said, "I'm afraid I've  **pushed** your dream cycle  **too far** again. I'll  **leave you**  now. Tomorrow, get the portal  **ready**. Follow my  **instructions** for  **after it**   **opens**. You'll  **feel** my signal when I'm about to  **take over**."

Fidds gave a deep bow. The dream world trembled around him as he realized all that he had agreed to do.

"Until  **tomorrow** ,  **Portal-Bound**." Bill's yellow glow grew brighter.

Then he disappeared entirely, and the dream world trembled into ruin.


	11. Chapter 11

Stanford Pines was very confused.

Ever since waking up that day in the bunker, there had been a feeling of urgency that he couldn't shake. He couldn't remember much from that time; it was all a blur. Something about Bill Cipher? Something about the danger he posed? Ford couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember?

Surely he wrote something down in his Journal. But when he went through it, he found torn pages. This sent him into a panic —  _he_ would never rip pages out of his Journals! He asked Stanley and Fiddleford about it, and Fidds winced. "Shifty was ripping out pages when I got down to the bunker and found you unconscious," he said. "I'm sorry, Ford."

At first, Ford was annoyed that Fidds didn't inform him of this right away. But then, as he flipped through to assess the damage, he found an errant page, half-torn and spattered with blood, depicting a large image of Bill. Words above, written in Ford's handwriting, read, "My dreams aren't safe"; and below, "It is possible to follow the demon into a person's mind and prevent his chaos. One must simply recite this incantation." Beneath that were random Latin phrases.

Ford didn't remember writing this page. And he certainly didn't remember  _bleeding_ on it.

Was he going crazy? Was his dedication to his work addling his brain? For he was plagued by an unknowable apprehension, one that centered on the portal. It was suddenly all he could think about. He had to finish the portal. He didn't know why, but he  _had_ to finish it. If he didn't, something terrible might happen. Something. . . something to do with Bill Cipher. His muse turned demon.

He didn't dare tell anyone about the Journal page that he couldn't remember writing. Stanley would think he was going crazy, and he might try to stop the work on the portal. That couldn't happen — they had to finish the portal. The more Ford thought about it, the more frustrated he became with his inability to remember why he was frustrated, and the more sure he became that finishing the portal would jog his memory. Did they need to banish Bill to the other side of the portal? Did they need to find someone inside that could stop him? Stop him from  _what_? Ford knew Bill was bad news, but try as he might, he couldn't remember  _why_!

In his unease, Ford wrote vague Journal entries warning future readers to  _stay awake_ and  _trust no one_. Or maybe he was warning himself. But why did he need to warn anyone about anything? They were going to finish the portal. Whatever Bill was up to, they would stop it.

Right?

Lee quickly picked up on his brother's anxious mood. He asked what was wrong, but Ford couldn't explain. He didn't know how. "I'm fine, Stanley," he would insist. He knew Stanley was unsatisfied with this answer, but he had no idea how to express his real feelings.

He didn't know what his real feelings  _were_.

Months passed. The portal was finally ready come August, and Ford's impatience to open it only increased. One night, Lee was trying to convince him to stop for the night, to go to sleep, to look at the project with fresh eyes in the morning. Ford refused. Impulsively, he threw the fuel engagement lever, and pushed the button to open the portal.

That night, he inadvertently started the gravitational anomalies.

Fidds went to sleep immediately after the first anomaly, which annoyed Ford plenty. Wasn't anyone going to watch over the machinery and make sure the anomalies didn't destroy it? Eventually, Lee abandoned him for sleep as well. Ford stayed in the basement, too keyed up to sleep, and watched over the machinery.

Lee and Fidds discovered him the next morning, writing in one of his Journals about his experiences with the anomalies. "Ford?" said Lee, sounding worried. "Did you sleep?"

"I wouldn't have been able to fall asleep with these anomalies," Ford replied curtly. "Now come on — we need to do last minute checks to make sure everything is running smoothly when the portal opens."

He glanced up at the timer. Still ten hours to go. Why did it have to take so long?

The day dragged on. Anomalies interrupted their work, and Ford's impatience grew. Lee tried to calm him down, but to no avail.

Even Fidds seemed to be on Lee's side. "Remember, Stanford, this is just our first test. We shouldn't get ahead of ourselves."

"I know that," Ford said tersely. "Now, is that gauge functioning properly?"

Some part of him knew he was out of line, that the portal wasn't more important than his relationships with his brother and his friend. But it was a small part of him, and his anxieties smothered it out of awareness. Finally, the portal would open. Finally, he'd remember what he'd forgotten. Nothing could get in the way of that.

The hours creaked on. How did it feel like the months had gone so quickly since that confusing day in May, yet the seconds went so slowly on this single day in August? Ford wanted to scream and throw things across the room. Of course, that would do far more harm than good, so instead he threw himself into his work. Don't watch the clock, he told himself. Just focus on the final inspections.

Lee wasn't much help. He seemed to get underfoot more than anything. A few times, he mentioned that he would go make them some breakfast, then some lunch, then some dinner — but Ford and Fidds always shouted him down. No, Stanley, who knows what the gravitational anomalies would do with the heat of the oven! You could burn the house down!

So Lee stayed in the basement, his shoulders hunched with the tension of Ford's heightened sensitivity. Neither scientist asked him for help; neither trusted anyone else to do their work. Instead of doing anything remotely helpful, Lee simply had to worry that everyone in town was doing okay with these gravitational anomalies. He wondered how far these anomalies spread. Was the entire country dealing with random spurts of wonky gravity? Was the entire  _world_?

"Lee, go grab the harnesses," Ford finally instructed. "They should be back in the lab. We don't want to get sucked into the portal before we're ready."

Oh, finally, something to do. Lee left the basement and was shocked to find the light of an afternoon sun pulsing through a nearby window. Had it been that long?

He made it back to the lab with some difficulty, considering that gravity had gleefully decided this was a wonderful time to throw him onto the far wall, and he spent quite some time searching for the harnesses. Then he headed back to the basement, waiting to board the elevator until just after a gravitational anomaly, in hopes that it would increase the chances of his making it down safely. Wouldn't want to get stuck in there forever, like in  _The Twilight Region_.

Ford wasn't very grateful. "What took you so long?"

Lee stared at him incredulously. "Oh, I don't know, I think  _someone_ made gravity go all weird. Hard to walk through your own house when stuff is flying around!"

Ford raised an eyebrow, probably at Lee referring to the lab as his "own house", but Lee wasn't going to correct himself. He'd lived here for an entire year now, so it might as well be his.

"If you want, I could go back up there and get us some—"

"You'll burn the house down," Fidds immediately said.

"I wasn't going to cook anything! Just make some sandwiches! We haven't eaten all day!"

"You'll make a mess," Ford replied. "Surely you can go one day without food."

Lee scowled at him. Of course he could — he'd been homeless, remember? But that didn't mean he  _liked_ to go hungry, especially if it was by choice.

Too bad. Lee may have lived here for a while, but it was still Ford's house. Ford's house meant Ford's rules. They were all going hungry today.

Per Ford's instruction, Lee set up the harnesses, but both Ford  _and_ Fidds checked his work — then redid it. Why even bother asking him, huh?

But Ford was too anxious to  _not_ check everyone's work a million times. This had to go perfectly — whatever  _this_ was. He didn't entirely know what he was preparing for, so he prepared all the harder. It made him feel safe, made him feel ready.

"What the plan, Sixer?" asked Lee. "What are we going to do when that thing opens?" By then, they were all in the portal room, safely in their harnesses. Across the room, the portal whirred, casting a stark white light over the basement.

"We'll go in, tethered by the harnesses, and scope out what's on the other side," Ford said, as nonchalantly as if they were going to an amusement park. His mannerisms betrayed his nervousness, though, and he walked stiffly across the room to an internal control station. The harnesses were connected to ropes that allowed the men a considerable range of motion. Ford typed a command into the computer, entered it, and looked over his shoulder as the control switch hissed as its top flipped open. Fidds, standing by it, pushed the large red button that was now visible.

Ford made his way to the center of the room. "Good thinking with this failsafe, Fiddleford," he commented mildly. "We wouldn't want the portal to open and the anomalies to be too strong to shut it down."

"Th-thanks. I, uh, had a feeling we might need it." Fidds had had no such feeling, of course. Bill had ordered the failsafe for unknown reasons — and Fidds couldn't help but feel a bit betrayed that his lord hadn't warned him about the gravitational anomalies.

No matter, he told himself. He would get his reward soon enough. Fidds fingered the stun gun that was hidden in his tweed jacket and wondered when he should use it. Soon, probably.

Across the room, Lee glanced up at the clock. Still three minutes. "So, do we just ride the Wacky Gravity Train until this thing opens?" he asked.

"We wait for a zero gee anomaly and go investigate," Ford replied. "Perhaps we'll be able to go in before the timer runs out."

No way. Fidds would shoot both the brothers before either of them got near the portal. No one was going to enter before Fidds did. It was his—

The portal let out a deep groan of otherworldly proportions. Gravity flipped.

Lee let out a yell of surprise. Ford and Fidds instinctively grabbed onto the control switch as gravity pulled them to the portal. This anomaly was strong, and Ford was glad for the added security of the control switch as well as his harness.

Stanley, however, fell toward the portal.

His harness caught him, wrenching the air from his lungs. He hung there in the air, trying to recover his breath, as Ford yelled his name. "Are you okay?"

He didn't have enough air to say that he was fine.

The anomaly dragged on interminably. Lee stared into the gaping white jaws of the portal as his harness dug into his abdomen, the rope creaking under his weight. Ribbons of color danced around the portal's nexus, hungrily awaiting their victim.

"Stanley! Try to make your way to me!"

"Ford, I don't think this switch can hold all of our wait. He's fine, the harness will—"

_Snap!_

Lee's weight was too much. Or the anomaly was too strong. Or the rope had been fraying to begin with. Or all of the above. The rope snapped.

Lee plunged into the white abyss.


	12. Chapter 12

****Ford watched in horror as his brother tumbled toward the portal.

" _Stanley!_ " he screamed. He pushed off the control switch, flying to his brother. His hands scrambled for his twin in a panic; he managed to catch onto Lee's pant leg just before his safety rope went taut. He pulled on it with all his strength until he could wrap his arms around both of Lee's knees. "It's okay, Lee! I've got you!"

No response. Ford glanced up.

Lee was halfway submerged in the opening of the portal. Color danced around him.

"Lee! Can you hear me, Lee!" This close, the roaring of the portal was so loud that Ford could barely hear himself. All he could do was hope for the anomaly to end soon — before  _his_ rope snapped.

And before he lost his tenuous grip on his brother.

Just as Ford thought he couldn't hold on any longer, gravity disappeared. With gravity no longer pulling Lee away from him, Ford heaved his brother out of the portal. The frantic motion sent both brothers flying away from the portal and toward the far wall. They hit with a  _thud_ and rebounded, floating to the center of the room.

Ford did his best to rotate Lee in his arms until they were both oriented the same way, facing each other. "Lee, are you okay?"

Stanley just stared at him with wide, unseeing eyes.

"Lee?"

A breath burst from Lee's chest, and he gave loud, gasping breaths as he clung to Ford. "I'm. . . never. . . doing that. . . again."

Ford let out a breath of relief. He was okay.

Gravity returned, sending the brothers back to the ground. Ford hurried Lee out of the portal room, calling for Fidds to follow. There were still ninety seconds on the timer — ninety seconds before the portal truly opened — and Ford wanted to wait out the rest of the anomalies where they wouldn't have such dire consequences.

Lee braced his hand over the control station desk and leaned on it, breathing heavily. "Lee, are you okay?" asked Ford, putting a hand on his back. "What. . . what did you see?"

His response was another wide-eyed look. "I. . . it's. . ." Lee shook his head. "It's a wasteland in there, Sixer." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Nothing but an empty wasteland." Then a wince. "A very bright one, though."

What? No, that couldn't be right. There had to be something on the other side. Something to discover, something to study. "Maybe you didn't get past the white barrier," Ford said. "You probably didn't get through to the other side." He turned. "Right, Fidds?"

He froze as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Fidds?" He took a step back, putting his hands up. "Fidds, what's wrong?"

Fidds' hands shook as he pointed the stun gun at his research partner. "I'm sorry, Stanford."

He fired.

Lee caught Ford as he fell. "Fidds, what the—"

"You got to see the other side."

Lee stared at him warily. "I. . . I did. Wherever you have that portal set to, Fidds, it's empty. Now, just put that down, and we can—"

"No." Fidds' hands shook even more. "No, it can't be empty. I've been promised — great rewards—"

"What?"

Fidds shook his head. Never mind. There was an explanation, he was sure. Ford was probably right: Lee probably hadn't seen the other side at all.

"Fiddleford, put the gun down." Lee stepped forward, reaching out. As he did so, gravity disappeared again, sending him higher into the air with his footstep than he'd anticipated.

Above them, the timer beeped to  **00:00:00**. The portal burst into white flame — so bright that, even though there was a wall between him and the machine, Fidds had trouble seeing.

He fired the stun gun, hoping the shot would hit its mark.

When gravity returned, when Fidds' vision cleared, he saw Lee's body fall to the ground, landing near Ford. A wave of nausea hit him as he realized what he had just done — and what he was about to do.

Fidds stepped into the portal room and fixed his gaze on the machine, willing himself to calm down. The portal, now open, pulsed with soft white light, caressed by swaths of blue. This. This was the face of Fidds' destiny.

The sight helped him immensely.

He walked toward the portal and discovered that gravity lessened the closer he got to it. Ah, so that was how Bill would enter the portal. He would simply push off the ground and float into it.

Fidds' brain hadn't quite processed that  _he_ would be the one floating into it, while carrying Bill inside his body. That thought still made him shudder with nervousness.

He took a deep breath. Don't think about entering the portal. No one was going in yet. Fidds still had work to do.

Fidds hurried up to the lab and grabbed his memory gun, going over in his mind exactly what he would type in before he shot the brothers. Stanley. . . he knew what he would type for Stanley. But he wasn't so sure what he should do with Stanford.

Halfway down to the basement, Fidds realized what he needed to do, and his stomach sank. Of course. Ford would wonder where his brother went, no question. Fidds had to make sure he wouldn't go looking for him.

Stanley was going where Ford could not follow.

So when Fidds stood over the unconscious Pines brothers, his shaky hands typed the input phrase:  _Saving Stanley_.

He stood over Ford, gun pointed at the man's head, his finger faltering on the trigger. Could he really do this? Could he make Ford forget that he had saved his brother from the portal? Losing his brother. . . it would tear Ford apart.

But he was going to lose his brother either way. Making him think Stanley had gone through the portal, and not that he'd been taken by the Order, felt like the more merciful option. Or, at the very least, it was the option that kept the Order out of suspicion. Ford had already found out about them once; Fidds could hardly imagine the disaster if he found them a second time.

Fidds screwed his eyes shut and fired the gun.

Nothing changed. The beam from the gun mixed with the light from the portal before disappearing as it hit Stanford's temple.

Fidds peeked open his eyes to see the last of the beam dissipate into the air. "I'm sorry, Stanford," he repeated in a whisper.

Then he turned to Stanley.

Now, Fidds didn't much like Stanley. He never had. A year of torture, that's what Stanley was to Fiddleford.

Yet. . . was that enough cause to completely erase his memory?

Fidds shook his head. No, Fiddleford, he reminded himself. That's not why you're erasing his memory. It's not for some personal vendetta. It's for Bill.

It's for the great rewards on the other side of that portal.

With trembling fingers, Fidds typed in a new input phrase. This time, it was solely a name:  _Stanley Pines_.

He had to do this. He had to prove to Bill that he was worthy.

He swallowed back bile and fired the gun a second time.

Again, no visible change. Stanley lay there, as unconscious as ever. But the weight of Fidds' actions swept over him, driving him to his knees. He knelt on all fours, staring at the ground in shock as his body convulsed in dry heaves. His mind scrambled to get ahold of itself.

Focus. Focus, Fiddleford. Focus on your destiny. What's next?

Next was. . . next was getting them both upstairs.

Fidds sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth, and frowned at the Pines brothers. He wasn't very strong. How was he supposed to get them in an out of an elevator, then up a flight of stairs? He couldn't do that. He doubted even Bill Cipher could do that, if he was limited to the physical strength of Fidds' body.

Then he'd just have to find some of his fellow Order members to help him. And be quick about it, for he only had two hours maximum before the brothers awoke.

He hurried up the stairs, trying to remember where Percy Pleasure's house was. Had he ever been there? Or had he only seen the Order leader at headquarters? Would anyone be at headquarters after those anomalies?

Thankfully, he didn't have to go far. He didn't even have to leave the house. When he opened the door, about to leave, he found four men standing on the doorstep.

He yelled and jumped back, startled by this unexpected sight. It took him a moment to realize these were Order members, headed by Gabriel Northwest himself.

"Apologies for startling you," said Gabriel. He stepped into the house without asking permission, and his three companions followed him.

Fidds reached for the door and closed it behind them. He'd only seen Gabriel Northwest a few times; he had worked much more closely with the son, Gaston, than he ever had the father.

"Lord Cipher informed us that you would need assistance with the Pines brothers," Gabriel said. "Where are they?"

"Th-this way," Fidds stammered. He awkwardly moved around the group, then led them to the basement.

"Lord Cipher told me to ask you," Gabriel commented on the way down, "whether you had followed his instructions. I assume you know which instructions he means."

Fidds' stomach flipped. "Y-yes," he said. "I m-m-mean, I have more, but I've done everything up to this point."

Gabriel nodded, looking vaguely curious as to what Fidds meant by "everything". But he held his peace on the subject.

The elevator bumped to a stop, and the Order members stared at the portal as it came into view.

"Magnificent," Gabriel breathed. He glanced sideways at Fiddleford. "And you are to be the vessel that carries our lord to his freedom?"

Fidds squirmed under Gabriel's gaze. Had everyone known about that but him? Finally, he managed a nod.

Gabriel simply lifted an eyebrow.

"The, um, the brothers are over there," Fidds said unnecessarily, with an equally unnecessary gesture. The Order members traversed the room and hoisted the limp bodies onto their shoulders.

They took two elevator trips back up. Fidds told the first group to put Stanford on the couch, then stayed with the second group. He was sure these Order members could be trusted, but he still didn't want to leave anyone alone with the portal. Before he went upstairs, he gathered the memory gun and all three Journals into his arms.

Now for his next assignment.

They left Stanford at the lab and walked down the street, in open daylight, with Stanley's bags on their shoulders and Stanley himself unconscious in their arms. Gabriel assured Fidds that no one would come out to see them, for the townspeople were still cowering in fear from the gravitational anomalies. "Gaston will have a field day cleaning up after you," he remarked.

Fidds' guilt, mixed with uncertainty over whether or not Gabriel was being humorous, resulted in nothing more than a weak chuckle.

When they arrived at Order headquarters, they were greeted by an enthusiastic Percy Pleasure. "It appears everything went smoothly, then," he said cheerfully. He gestured to Stanley. "I'll show you where to put him; follow me."

He led the group deeper into the compound, where he eventually opened a door to what appeared to be a bedroom. A simple bed and dresser furnished a stark stone room, with lantern-bearing sconces on the wall.

"Place him on the bed and handcuff him to that sconce there, you see?" instructed Percy. "Put whatever clothes he has in the dresser, then dispose the rest of the items in those bags. And you, Fiddleford, come with me."

Fidds swallowed and did as Percy said. They walked down the hall, turning the corner so they could have a reasonably private conversation. Fidds was nervous, but Percy's easy smile quickly soothed any worries about their meeting.

"I'm proud of you, Fiddleford," he said.

Unexpected tears brimmed Fidds' eyes, and he blinked them back. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"You still have more work to do," Percy reminded him, "but you've done wonderfully so far. I assume those are for me?" He inclined his head to the items in Fidds' arms.

"Oh, y-yes," Fidds replied. He held out the memory gun, along with the first Journal. He'd left the other two Journals at the lab; he would hide those elsewhere. The first one, though, was the one Bill had told him to leave with Percy.

"Marvelous," Percy said as he accepted the items. "Lord Cipher told me of his deal with you. He assured me that he wouldn't take over until after you'd completed your tasks — unless you had trouble completing those tasks. I take it you had no trouble, then?"

Fidds thought about his shaky hands, about his hesitancy, about his dry heaving. "No, sir," he lied. "No trouble."

Even as he said it, the taste of bile lingered in his mouth.

"Good." Percy clasped Fidds' shoulder. His eyes shone with fervency. "You, Fiddleford, have a great privilege. For you are to be the first member of this Order to set foot in Lord Cipher's home world."

Unbidden, the memory of Stanley describing it as empty sprang to Fidds' mind. He shoved the thought away. "I am. . . I am deeply honored, Master Pleasure."

Percy's smile widened. "Rightly so, Fiddleford. Rightly so."

He squeezed Fidds' shoulder and let go. "I will let you leave to finish your tasks," he said. "May we see each other again in Lord Cipher's home, yes?"

Fidds managed a smile. "Yes. I look forward to it."

With that, he left.

He returned to the lab, where he took the other two Journals, his personal computer, and the prototypes of his memory gun, and placed them in a box. Now to his next location: the bunker.

As he gathered the items, he marveled over Bill's foresight in these things. Last night, Cipher had informed him that the secret compartments Fidds had built, all those years ago, were for a purpose such as this. One next to the bunker, built into the fake tree — the other across the forest, near the home of the fairies. Fidds hadn't known the purpose of their construction when he'd built them. But of course, Bill had reasons for all things.

Fidds picked up the box and returned to the entry way. Upon glancing at Ford, still lying prone on the couch, he had to squelch the fluttering guilt that sprang up in his stomach. He turned away.

Ford moaned.

Fidds jumped. Maybe he was just crying out in his sleep? But no, Ford was stirring — he seemed to be waking up.

"Stanley. . . Lee. . . Lee, no!" Ford shot up to a sitting position. Fidds immediately set the box down by the door and moved to his friend.

Or. . . to the man who thought Fidds was his friend. Fidds doubted he deserved the appellation after what he'd done.

"Fidds! Fidds, what happened? Where's Stanley? Why am I up here?" Ford got to his feet, stumbled a bit, and grabbed onto Fidds' shoulder for stability.

"What. . . what do you remember?"

Ford squinted at the far wall as if it would hold the answer. "I. . . I remember Stanley falling towards the portal." His eyes widened. "Stanley was getting sucked into the portal — I — I was going to save him, but. . . I don't remember anything after that. What happened?"

Fidds pulled on all his skills of deception to muster a horrified look — which wasn't too hard, considering how horrified he felt at himself. "You don't remember? I. . . Stanford, I'm so sorry."

"What do you mean?" Ford searched Fidds' face warily. "Why are you sorry?"

"Stanley. . ." Fidds closed his eyes. "Stanley fell into the portal. He's gone."

Ford stared at him in uncomfortable silence. Then he sank back onto the couch. "No. . . no, I must have saved him. My rope was long enough."

"You just missed him. You ran out of line before you could reach him."

A determined look leapt to Ford's face. "Then we have to go after him. Come on, Fiddleford, let's—"

"What?" Somehow, Fidds hadn't imagined that Ford would want to go into the portal in search of his brother. But now he realized — of course Ford would want that. How did he not think of that? What could he do to stop it?

"We're going in after him," Ford said.

"But — the portal was too unstable. I had to shut it down after you got knocked unconscious. We'd have to spend another eighteen hours turning it back on—"

"Then we'll do that." There would be no persuading Ford about this. And if he went downstairs and saw that the portal was still on — then what?

Fidds wished he still had his memory gun.

Wait. He did — sort of. He at least had the prototypes.

"Okay," Fidds said. "Okay, let me grab the ignition key."

There was no ignition key, of course. The portal wasn't a car — and Fidds preferred codes to keys, anyway. But it was the only excuse he could think of. He hurried back to the cardboard box with the prototypes and rummaged through them. Which one should he use? He didn't want to harm Ford, and some of these prototypes had adverse effects.

"There is no ignition key," Ford said, a frown lacing his words.

Fidds cringed. No time to choose. He grabbed one of the prototypes — one without an input phrase option. Right, this was one that didn't actually erase memories. It just cast out a net that pushed them out of the way, so the mind wouldn't think about them as readily. That would work: Fidds didn't want to erase Ford's memory of his brother entirely, but he also didn't want Ford to go looking for Stan.

"Fidds? What are you doing?" Ford's voice sounded closer.

Fidds turned, once again pointing a gun at his research partner. A good portion of him was horrified at himself — was he going to shoot Ford three times in one day? — but not enough to overrule his determination to prove himself. If he couldn't do this, Bill would take over and do it for him; Percy had made that much clear. Fidds didn't think he could live with that humiliation.

So he pulled the trigger.

Ford fell, and Fidds lunged forward to catch him, dropping the gun. He dragged Ford back into the living room. "I'm sorry," he whispered, again, as he lowered him onto the couch.

He wondered if Stanley had also awoken. It made sense that they would wake up at about the same time. Unless erasing Stan's identity resulted in a longer bout of unconsciousness.

With that thought came a crippling rush of guilt.

I did this. I erased Stan's mind. And I made sure his brother won't be able to find him.

Maybe Fiddleford should have let Bill take over after all. Then he wouldn't have been the one to destroy these men's lives.

He shook his head. No, don't think that way. Surely Bill would be proud of his determination.

Motivated only by this hope, Fidds returned the prototype to the box and left the lab.

The rest of his errands went off without a hitch. No supernatural creatures crossed his path on the way to the bunker; Fidds imagined they were all hiding in secure places to stay safe from the gravitational anomalies.

He hadn't thought about what the gravitational anomalies would do to the creatures in the forest. Hopefully they were safe.

In the bunker, he placed the items in various places around the observation room, then hid the third Journal in the nearby secret compartment. The second Journal he took to his other compartment by the fairy grove. He didn't see any fairies.

The compartment slid shut with the familiar creaking of machinery, and Fidds stood, brushing dirt from his pants. That. . . that was it. He was done. He had completed his tasks from Bill. As he turned his feet back to the lab, he realized with a start what came next. Bill would take over. The two would enter the portal together. If everything went well, Fidds would never see this dimension again.

That thought made him slow down. Would he never set foot in this forest again? Surely there were more beautiful things in Bill's dimension, or in other dimensions of the multiverse. But. . . still. This forest held so many memories for Fidds. This forest was  _his_.

He would miss it. But he had to remind himself that, by fulfilling this final assignment from Bill, he would receive much more than a single forest.

Fidds wasn't greedy. He didn't particularly want to rule over dimensions, like Bill had promised. But he did want to achieve greatness. He did want to fulfill his destiny. He did want to make Lilith proud. If she ever flew to Gravity Rises and discovered the magic here, he wanted someone to tell her about his many contributions to the Order.

For they were  _his_ contributions. Not Percy's, not Gabriel's, not Gaston's. They were  _Fidds'_. Even if Percy did end up in Bill's dimension, he would never forget that Fidds had been first, that Fidds was Bill's chosen servant. Fiddlefordwas a name destined for great things, just the way Lilith had said all those years ago, and Fidds was about to fulfill that destiny.

When he got back to the lab, he packed up all his belongings — not because he particularly thought he would need them, but because he wanted to leave no trace of himself where Ford could remember and come after him. It pained him to leave Ford, but he had to hope that, someday, Ford could come join him. When Ford saw him again, his accomplishments would be even more, even greater than they were now.

All of his clothes and such could fit in a single duffel bag; his personal inventions were safe in the bunker; everything else, such as the stun guns, he would leave with Ford. A persistent itching stayed in his stomach as he packed — nervousness, he presumed, about this major change that was about to occur. He packed quickly, then made his way down to the basement.

Upon passing Ford, he stopped. He didn't dare touch him, for fear of waking him up again, but he couldn't resist taking a moment to look at his research partner.

"Goodbye, Ford," he said. "I'll remember you. When I make the discoveries you wanted to make, I'll do it for you."

Ford, unconscious as he was, gave no response.

When Fidds got down to the basement, the portal greeted him with its swirling mass of white and blue. The humming of the machinery felt like music to Fidds' ears: the music of freedom. Bill's freedom.

This was it.

Fidds felt a tug on his back.

He whirled around, but there was no one there. No one had touched him. What was that, then? It. . . it felt like someone tugging on the back of his shirt, except. . . deeper. Like someone pulling on Fidds' very self.

The tug came again — but this time, it was stronger. This time, it was a pull. Fidds cried out as he was yanked backwards. The world spun, then disappeared entirely. Fidds heard a sickening tearing noise. All sense of orientation left him.

Then it passed. Fidds' vision cleared, showing the basement just as it had been before.

Except now Fidds was floating. Floating and looking down at his own body. His own body, which now had yellow, slitted eyes.

" **Oh** , this is  **wonderful**!" It was Bill's voice. It was Bill's voice, coming from Fidds' body. "I haven't  **possessed**  anyone in  **so long**!"

"My — my lord." Fidds bowed as best he could in this spirit body, shoving back his dizziness. He shouldn't be dizzy; he wasn't in a physical body that could feel dizzy to begin with. It must be all in his head.

Bill looked up at Fidds and grinned widely. It was disconcerting to see that grotesque smile on Fidds' own face.

"You  **did** it,  **Portal-Bound**!" Grotesque smile notwithstanding, Bill sounded proud of Fidds. "I was  **worried** , I'll  **admit** , but you performed  **wonderfully**."

"Is. . ." Fidds swallowed, not sure if he wanted to know the answer to this question. "Is Stanley gone? Did I erase his identity?"

Bill nodded enthusiastically. "In terms of his  **memory** , he's a  **blank slate**. I  **don't know** what  **Sixer's** head looks like, of course, but that was a  **great** improvisation with the  **prototype**."

Fidds bowed again, though he felt sick — for, despite not having a stomach with which to feel sick, his mind still called up the memory. He'd done it. He really had erased Stan's identity.

Well. . . well, maybe the new one would be better than the old. Maybe Fidds had given Stan the opportunity he needed to start over and build something greater than he had before.

It was a paper-thin justification, but Fidds clung to it.

Otherwise, he'd be guilty for destroying someone's life.

Bill moved around the basement, typing commands into the control station and pushing buttons and pulling levers. "What are you doing?" asked Fidds.

" **Sabotaging** ," Bill replied cheerfully. "I'm setting the portal to  **close**  behind us. We don't want anyone  **following**  us — or  **escaping**  into this dimension."

"We don't want anyone following us? What about Percy?"

Bill shrugged. "I  **like** Percy.  **Perhaps** I'll create another  **passage** into this dimension and have him  **join** us  **later**. But for  **now** , we have to  **cover our tracks**."

This really was final, then. Fidds wouldn't be coming back. Yet he found himself unnaturally calm with the idea. Or maybe that was just the shock of a major change.

Bill finished his adjustments. " **There**. Shall we  **go**?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He picked up the duffel bag with Fidds' belongings and walked into the portal room.

Fidds followed, finding it easier to move as a spirit than he'd supposed. "My lord," he said, unable to keep the nervousness out of his voice, "Stanley said — after he fell into the portal, and before I, um—" He swallowed. "He said the dimension was empty on the other side."

Bill paused. Then turned. Then sighed. "I don't  **know** what he saw. I lost  **sight** of him when he entered the  **portal** ; I can only see humans when they're  **inside**  my prison. Like  **Stanford** said, he  **might** not have gotten through to the other side.  **Or** , if he  **did** , if it  **is** empty — well, that's not a  **surprise**. I've been gone for  **millennia** , after all." Upon seeing Fidds' worried expression, he added, "Don't  **worry**. When I get  **back** , we'll rebuild my empire  **together**."

He started toward the portal.

Fidds' work wouldn't be over on the other side of the portal, then. Not that he had expected it to be. If Bill wanted Fidds to rule over dimensions, then he certainly wouldn't be sitting around doing nothing. He was just glad Bill would still be there to help him — because Fidds couldn't do it on his own.

Before pushing off, before entering the portal, Bill paused again. He looked up at the white mass, an expression of defiance contorting his — or, Fidds' — face.

"I hope this  **works** ," he said.

Fidds started. "What do you mean?" he asked in alarm. "Of course it will work."

Bill didn't answer. Instead, he jumped, sailing into the portal.

_Crack!_

There was a flash of light, accompanied by a rush of sound. Fidds was blown back in the wake of the explosion.

"Bill!" he called, but he couldn't even hear his own voice. "Lord Cipher, are you all right?"

No answer. Or maybe there was an answer, but Fidds still couldn't see or hear anything besides pure light and roaring sound. What had happened? Where was his lord?

The light died down enough that Fidds could see vague outlines. He could see the triangular shape of the portal. He could see the silhouette of his own body as it passed through into another dimension.

He could see a small triangle, its top hat askew, drifting toward him — away from the portal.

"Lord Cipher!" He moved to the triangle's side. Sure enough, Bill floated there, his eye closed. His yellow glow was gone, revealing a dull grey form beneath. The sight frightened Fidds more than he could bear. "Lord Cipher, are you okay? What happened?"

Instead of answering, Bill dissolved into nothingness.

"Bill!" screamed Fidds. He looked around the portal room in a panic. But Bill was gone. No one was down here. No one, not even Fidds' body. For that was on the other side of the portal, awaiting its original inhabitant: him.

The portal screeched. The color in its nexus shook.

It was about to close.

Fidds froze up. What should he do? Bill was gone — who knew where — Fidds' body was in another dimension — if he ever wanted to reunite with his body, it would have to be now — the portal shuddered, the light dimming—

Instinctively, Fidds hurtled into the whiteness.

White — then blue — then purple — then black — then white again. All swirling in Fidds' vision, all demanding his attention. Then the colors stabilized into a bright black, streaked with purple, unnaturally vibrant. How could darkness ever be so bright?

Fidds stared out across the new dimension. Stanley had been right: it was utterly empty. Nothing but emptiness.

Except.

Except for Fidds' body.

It floated a few feet in front of him. The duffel bag with Fidds' belongings floated nearby. Other than that, the body was alone. Alone in this wasteland of a dimension. Fidds moved to it—

The portal shut down behind him.

Fidds turned. No. No no no no no—

Yes.

He was officially trapped in this dimension.

With no Bill, no empire, not a single soul in this emptiness.

His ghostly body went through all the motions of a panic attack, purely through the memory of them while inhabiting his physical body. He was trapped here. He'd be here forever — not only had Bill closed the portal, but  _Fidds_ had made sure Ford wouldn't turn it back on. He'd sealed his own doom.

For years, Fidds had done Cipher's will. He'd lied to his friend and wiped people's memories, and all the while he told himself that it would be worth it. All the while he waited for his reward.

Well, this was his reward. This chilling emptiness, this deformed light.

He didn't know how long he panicked. There was no way to measure time anymore — perhaps there was no time at all.

Eventually — or maybe immediately — he decided to reenter his body. Then he could go looking for something. What to look for, he didn't know. Something.  _Anything_.

He stared down at his body, lit in the unnatural black glow. The body appeared asleep: eyes closed, not moving, but still breathing. He wondered how his body kept functioning without his spirit to inhabit it. Maybe it wouldn't function for long without him.

Suddenly, though, he was afraid to return to it. What if the restoration of his spirit didn't actually wake his body? What if he remained unconscious forever?

He looked around at the barren dimension. Pure blackness, he decided, would be better than this distorted light.

So, with a final grimace, Fidds flew into his body.

It was the last move he would make for thirty years.


	13. Chapter 13

**WINTER 2013**

A soft rumble accompanied the otherwise-silent elevator as it trundled up its shaft. Dipper stared at the unconscious stranger, his eyes trailing down to the end of the man's beard as it brushed against the floor. His mind scrambled to make sense of the past five minutes. This man. . . this was Fidds. This was Fiddleford McGucket, who had stolen the Journals, who had erased Ford's mind. This wasn't Stan. This wasn't the person they needed to rescue.

What. . . what had gone wrong?

Mabel stood so close that Dipper could feel her shaking. A quick glance showed stunned tears on her face, and he knew she was just as lost as he was. She had been so brave down in the basement. . . and for what? Pressing that button had only brought pain.

That pain weaved through the Pines' silence, wrapping itself around Dipper's throat and strangling him. He couldn't do this. Someone had to say something, had to  _do_ something. Why wasn't anyone doing anything? Why were they all standing around and letting the silence suffocate them?

When the elevator stopped, Dipper burst from its confines. The tools in his arms jangled against each other as he took the stairs two at a time, running into the gift shop. Immediately, he was greeted with cold air that leaked in through the broken window, but he found he preferred it this way. The temperature matched how he felt; it was only appropriate.

Eventually, the others caught up to him. Ford let go of Fidds long enough to push the vending machine, and it closed with a resounding  _thud_ that felt far too final. Then the somber procession continued: Melody and Ford carried Fidds as the twins trailed behind with their armloads of supplies.

To Dipper's horror, the silence followed them.

No. No, he couldn't handle this anymore. "So what now?" he demanded. "What are we going to do now?"

Mabel jumped as if someone had slapped her, and Dipper momentarily regretted his outburst. But it was better, he thought, to startle Mabel out of her stupor than to allow her to sink further into the pain. He kept talking, determined that no one shove him back into the horrible silence. "Well?" He sounded angry — he didn't want to sound angry, but he did.

He looked up to Ford for an answer; in his periphery, he noticed Mabel do the same. But Ford didn't answer. The muscles in his back and shoulder clenched, and he lowered his head. The posture was utterly dejected, and Dipper found it almost worse than the silence.

It was Melody who took charge; it was Melody who answered as she looked over her shoulder. "We're going to take Fiddleford to Ford's room, and I'll tend him there. You kids are going to take all that" — she nodded to the tools and books in their arms — "to Ford's lab."

"What's Ford going to do?" Mabel whispered. She sounded scared.

Ford stiffened further and said nothing.

"Come on, kids," said Melody quietly.

The silence descended again as the Pines walked down the hall. It wasn't much warmer here, and Dipper wondered when they were going to turn the heating back on — this cold made it hard to remember how it felt to be warm. He wanted to push past Ford and Melody so he could run to the lab, drop off his armful of tools, and do the next thing — he had to _do_ things, he couldn't stay still, he had to  _move_. But he didn't dare, though the pace was maddeningly slow.

Finally — _finally —_  they reached Ford's room. Mabel scrambled to open the door for the adults, and they moved sideways through the door, awkwardly, with Fidds' slack body between them. As soon as there was space, Dipper slipped past them and hurried to the lab. He kicked at the partially-open door, reveling in the sound as it slammed into the far wall, and dumped his armload. Metal struck metal in a satisfying cacophony as the tools clattered to the ground.

"Dipper?"

He turned. Mabel stood hesitantly in the doorway. She held all three Journals, and they seemed ready to spill out of her arms at any moment. How she opened the door for the adults, Dipper didn't know. He ran to her, ready to take the Journals from her hands and put them on a nearby desk.

She flinched.

Dipper skidded to a stop. "I — I was just going to take the Journals."

Slowly, she held them out, her eyes never leaving him. He took the books and set them on the closest desk. The Journals he treated with much more care than he had the tools, though he wasn't sure why — the tools hadn't done anything, but the Journals had provided the means for this disaster. Their golden hands glinted mockingly up at him.

He tore his eyes away and looked back to Mabel. "What now?"

A new film of tears laced Mabel's eyes. "Dipper. . . there's nothing we can do."

It was the last thing Dipper needed to hear. "I have to do something," he insisted. "I can't just — I can't just stand here, Mabel; I have to do _something_."

"You could. . ." Her voice cracked. "You could give me a hug."

He stared at her.

"Oh, Mabel," he said. He crossed to her, enfolded her in his arms. She collapsed in his grip, and he quickly found that he couldn't stand either. The siblings sank to the floor together, weighed down by the ashes of their shattered expectations.

Dipper didn't know how long they sat there. He didn't know how many tears were shed. But eventually a voice pulled them out of those ashes. "Mabel? Dipper?"

Then strong arms were around them. Not Ford's arms — Melody's arms. She held the twins tightly, and Dipper felt more secure than he had all morning. Without Melody, nothing would be okay ever again. With her. . . there was at least hope.

"I need to tend to Fiddleford," she said softly, and she moved back to look at them. "Could you. . . can you go and be with Ford? He's turning the electricity back on right now, but after that. . ." She sighed. "I'm worried about him, kids. He needs someone to be with him."

Mabel shook her head. "He needs to be alone."

No. . . that wasn't right. Neither of them were right. "He needs someone to be near him, so he can tell them to leave him alone," Dipper said.

Mabel and Melody looked at him. Quizzically at first, but then understanding dawned in their eyes. Dipper had plenty of experience when Mabel got that way; he imagined Melody did too, with Ford.

"Yes," Melody said. "Can you be that someone?"

It was a cruel question. To ask the twins, who clearly needed comforting, to instead comfort someone else. But Dipper realized that must be Melody's entire job: to be there for Ford, even when she needed someone to be there for her. And now, she was entrusting her job to Dipper and Mabel.

"We'll do our best," Dipper said. He didn't know if he had the ability to support Ford, but he'd do it anyway. Because that's what Melody did.

Mabel nodded her agreement, and Melody smiled at them in thanks. She helped them up and, after sending them down the hall, went back into Ford's room.

Dipper clutched at Mabel's hand, and they walked through the hall together. When they emerged in the entry way, Ford was already in the living room, looking lost and forlorn as he stood alone in its center. The light was on, and Dipper could hear a faint hiss of air as the heating kicked back in.

It took Ford a moment to notice the twins. "Leave me alone," he said, but there was no malice in his voice. "Please."

"Grunkle Ford," said Mabel, and those two words carried an entire conversation. She let go of Dipper's hand and crossed to her uncle, taking his hand and trying, as best she could, to guide him to the couch. She was by no means strong enough to move him, but Ford obediently followed her direction. When he was settled on the couch, Mabel climbed up next to him, likely hoping to gain as much comfort as she gave.

"No," Ford said suddenly. He moved to get up. "No, I can't sit — I have to find him—"

Dipper climbed onto the couch, and the twins held Ford down together. They would have been unsuccessful if he was actually trying to get up, but their uncle quickly caved and sat back down. Dipper agreed that they had to find Stan — but not now. Not while the pain was so raw.

The three Pines sat there, still in pain, but at least they were holding each other. Dipper couldn't handle another silence, though. So he talked. "So that's. . . that's Fiddleford?"

Ford took a shuddering breath. "He looks. . . he looks so different. But it's him."

"He got rid of Stan," said Mabel. She clung to Ford's arm. "What does that mean? 'Got rid of him'? What did he do?"

"He's not dead," Dipper said. He at least could be sure of that. Not only because Fidds had said so, but because Stan  _couldn't_ be dead. It wasn't possible.

"Anything can happen in thirty years," Ford whispered. "Fidds can't know what's happened to him since. . . since whatever happened between them." He sucked in a deep breath, like it was the last one he'd ever take. "He could be  _anywhere_."

"Then we'll look anywhere," Dipper said. And he meant it. "We'll find him, Grunkle Ford."

"Dipper," said Mabel. "Can we. . . can we not talk? Can we just. . . sit here?"

No. No, he couldn't just sit there. But he swallowed his retort and he did anyway. For Mabel. Like he often did.

Time flowed past them, and Dipper felt sidelined from its steady march. But, as much as he wanted to jump back in, he stayed on the couch. He stayed with his twin and his uncle and just sat there. Melody came in and out of the hall, fetching medical supplies and other necessities from around the house. She moved with time, while the rest of them remained outside. Dipper was jealous, until he remembered the task she'd given him. She needed him to be here for Ford.

Eventually, Mabel fell asleep — from pure exhaustion, probably. None of them had gotten great sleep the night before. But Dipper couldn't sleep, not on his life. From Ford's expression, he couldn't either. Ford didn't say anything, and Dipper didn't want to wake Mabel up, so he surrendered to the oppressive silence once again. At least he was sitting with his family this time.

Then the silence was broken, suddenly, by a knock on the door.

Mabel awoke with a yell. Dipper instinctively jumped to his feet. The knock was loud, frantic, almost frenzied. Dipper hurried to the door and checked out the window. The face he saw was not one he was expecting — but then, he wasn't expecting anyone, not anymore.

He pulled the door open before Ford could protest. "Robbie? What's wrong?"

"Where's Melody?" Robbie's expression was haggard and a little wild. "I need Melody."

Didn't they all? "Th-this way, but she's busy tending—" Dipper stopped as he realized. . . he didn't know how to explain.

"Tending Stanley?" Robbie followed him down the hall. "You saved him?"

Dipper squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. "No," he said. "No, there was. . . someone else."

"What? What do you mean, someone—"

"Robbie?" Melody gently closed the door behind her as she stepped into the hall. "What are you doing here?"

"Melody, I know you're busy with. . . whoever's in there," Robbie said, "but there's a situation. We need your help."

"Who's we?"

"There's been a car accident," Robbie said. "My parents are out there, checking over the people in the car, trying to keep everyone calm, but — they're coroners, not doctors. We need you to make sure everyone's okay."

"I'm — I'm not a doctor either," Melody protested.

"You're the closest thing we have."

Melody blinked rapidly. "I can check the victims over, but we really should get them to a hospital. We can use Ford's car and—"

"We can't go to a hospital," Robbie said. "I — I don't know how to explain. You just have to see." The panic in his eyes told Dipper that there must be more to the situation than just a car accident. "Please, Melody. Please come help."

Melody's eyes flickered between Robbie's face and the door beside her. Then her face settled into a decision, and she nodded. "Okay. Dipper, I need you to watch Fidds."

"But I don't know how to—"

"I know," Melody said. "I know, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Watch Fidds, and if anything happens — if his breathing slows down, if it speeds up, if he gets too warm — then come and get me." She looked to Robbie. "Is it close?"

"Just down the street."

"Good. If you need me, Dipper, just come out onto the porch and yell for me. Okay?" She started down the hall, talking to him over her shoulder.

"Okay," Dipper called, though he didn't feel that way in the least.

"Thank you, Dip."

Then she was gone.

~~~~~

Mabel found herself fairly disoriented after having woken up so suddenly. She was a little horrified at herself, that she'd been able to fall asleep at all. Given her poor sleep last night, it made sense, but it felt like she'd betrayed Stanley by falling asleep while he was still out there somewhere.

Footsteps sounded in the hall as Robbie returned, followed by Melody. Mabel stared in disbelief as the caretaker grabbed her coat from the coatrack and hitched her first aid kit under an arm. "Melody? Where are you going?"

Melody turned to Mabel and Ford. "I have to go," she said. "Dipper's watching Fidds. He'll come get me if anything bad happens. Hopefully I'll be back soon." With that, she hurried from the house.

Ford stared after her. "What is going on?"

"I don't know." Mabel wished she could go back to sleep. "B-but Robbie looked scared." Saying it out loud only increased her own fear. If Robbie was afraid of something. . . it must be horrifying. She had no desire to discover what it was.

Ford put an arm around Mabel and pulled her close. "Then he probably has good reason."

The words were completely discordant with the gesture. Mabel didn't know whether to feel better or worse.

Not too long after Melody and Robbie left, another knock sounded at the door. Mabel and Ford shared glances. Melody would just walk right in — so who could that be?

Mabel found herself wildly hoping that it was Stanley.

Since Dipper wasn't there to get the door, Mabel or Ford had to. They both stood up and walked to the door. Mabel stayed back as Ford looked through the window at this new visitor.

He looked down at Mabel, confusion knitting his brow. "It's Gideon Northwest."

A strangled sense of relief rushed through her. "L-let him in — I think he ran away. M-maybe he knows something."

Sure enough, Gideon called through the door, "Stanford, please. I can help you."

Ford still looked unsure, but the despair in his eyes won over the suspicion. Anything Gideon could tell them,  _anything_ , would be a start. Ford pulled open the door and stared Gideon down. "Do you know anything about my brother?" he demanded.

Gideon glanced over his shoulder, as if checking for pursuers. "Please let me in." Mabel noticed that he didn't have his amulet.

Ford's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Mabel tugged on his sleeve. "Let him in, Grunkle Ford."

Her great uncle stepped aside, and Gideon hurried through the door. "Thank you," he said as Ford closed the door behind him.

"Well?" Impatience grew in Ford's voice. "You said you can help. Do you or do you not know anything about my brother?"

Gideon looked up at Ford with calculating eyes. Then, he did something that Mabel had never seen him do before: he deflated. His shoulders slumped, and he seemed to have trouble meeting Ford's eyes.

"Yes," he admitted. "Yes, I. . . I've known your brother my entire life."


	14. Chapter 14

**SUMMER 1982**

The man woke up.

His eyes flickered open, showing unfamiliar surroundings. A small room with stone walls, lit by flickering firelight. He didn’t recognize it, yet it felt right. His brain assured him that this room was normal, that he had always been here. He didn’t worry about how he had gotten here, where he had come from, or even where he was. This situation felt natural, somehow: the rough blankets beneath his arms, the poor lighting, even the metal digging into his left wrist.

Wait.

Now that he had noticed the uncomfortable feeling in his wrist, he noticed other pains. His stomach yawned with hunger. His abdomen was sore, raw, throbbing. His back simmered with discomfort.

It was then that he wondered. Why was he in pain? What had happened?

He sat up and was surprised to find the source of the pain in his wrist. He was. . . he was cuffed to the wall. A pair of handcuffs, one cuff around his wrist, the other looped into the metal sconce that held a lantern. Why was he cuffed? In fact. . . what was this place?

So, his mind searched the past, casting a net into his sea of memories to discover the answers to his questions.

The net came up empty.

Wait. Wait, no, that couldn’t be right. He tried again. What had happened? What was the last thing he could remember?

Nothing. The more he reached for his memory, the further it evaded him. He tensed up all of his muscles, as if doing so would dislodge any spare memories from the recesses of his brain. It was futile. The rate of his breathing increased as his efforts repeatedly turned up fruitless.

What was wrong with him?

A distant sound floated into his range of hearing: the sound of a voice.

The man wanted to stand up, to get out of there, to find the source of that voice and demand what was going on. But he couldn’t. He was cuffed so closely to the wall that he could hardly move his wrist at all.

Instead, he strained his ears to better hear the voice. He could make out the quality: medium timbre, rich tone, versatile inflection that rose and fell with the words. But he couldn’t tell what any of the words _were_.

The voice grew closer, and the man could gradually piece together what it was saying. “I doubt it will work,” the mysterious voice said, “but we may as well try, don’t you think? He’s just in here.”

There was a door to the man’s right. The knob turned, and the door swung open.

A man in a purple robe entered. His eyes widened in alarm as he saw the first man sitting up in the bed. “Scrabdoodle!” he swore, and he spoke with the timbre of the mysterious voice. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“I. . . I woke up,” the man said. But even as he said it, he wondered if it were true. Maybe he hadn’t actually woken up. Maybe he was dreaming. It wouldn’t surprise him.

The purple-clad man’s face clouded in concern. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Instinctively, the man’s mind reached out for the answer, but it found only a knotted mess of emotions as his brain struggled to find his identity. “Where am I?” he asked, instead of answering. “Who are you? Who—”

The purple-clad man watched him curiously.

“Who am _I_?” the man whispered.

“We were hoping you could tell us that,” the purple-clad man said. “We found you outside, unconscious, and we brought you in here.”

“We?”

Another person slipped silently into the room. He was a young boy, barely a teenager, dressed in formal clothing and a somber expression. A small blue stone on his lapel seemed to glow, but it was probably just a trick of the firelight.

“I’m Percy Pleasure,” the purple-clad man said, placing a hand over his heart. He gestured to the boy beside him. “This is Gaston Northwest.”

The boy said nothing.

“I. . . I don’t recognize those names,” the man said. He had to force down panic as he said it. Would he recognize _anything_?

Percy shook his head sadly. “We figured you wouldn’t. We don’t recognize you, either. Can you tell us where you’re from?”

The man’s mind once again cast its nets, eager to find an answer to the question. Surely he knew where he was from, right? Everyone knew where they were from.

Yet his memories remained empty.

“I. . . I can’t,” he said. He had to force the words through a mesh of panic. “I don’t know where I’m from. I don’t — I don’t know who I am.” He looked desperately to Percy. “Help me.”

Percy’s face was a mask of sadness. “I can’t help you,” he said. “I’m sorry. Is there nothing you can remember? Not even a name?”

Despite the futility of the endeavor, the man’s mind still searched urgently for something, anything. He tore through the vault of his memory, swam through the depths of his brain, ran through the open fields of his mind. His hands went to his head and clutched at his hair.

A single syllable floated into his awareness.

“Lee,” he gasped. “I — I remember — the name Lee—”

“Is it yours?” asked Percy.

The man considered this question. He tentatively took hold of the name, drawing it into himself. Applying it to himself.

It spread through him with a faint warmth.

“I think it’s mine,” he said, though he still wasn’t entirely sure. “It. . . it feels right.”

“Perhaps it’s the first syllable of a longer name,” Percy suggested.

“Maybe,” Lee replied. “I don’t know.” The name didn’t carry anything with it. No recollections, no memories of anyone saying the name aloud. It still felt foreign to him, despite his increasing surety that it belonged to him.

That feeling was extremely painful. To have a name, to believe it was his, yet to still feel no real connection to it.

So he changed the subject. “Why am I cuffed to the wall?”

Percy granted him a slight grimace. “Sorry about that. We couldn’t be sure who you were or what you would do when you woke up. It’s for everyone’s safety.”

“I won’t hurt anyone.”

“Are you sure?”

Lee blinked. No. . . no, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know himself well enough to be sure. And that was terrifying.

Percy let Lee’s silence speak for itself. “You’ll have to stay cuffed for now, I’m afraid.” He turned to Gaston. “Anything?”

“Of course not,” Gaston replied.

Percy nodded. “I expected as much.”

“What is this place?” Lee demanded. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Gaston is dressed like this because he always dresses like this,” Percy answered with a slight smile. “I’m dressed like this because that’s the uniform.” He gestured around the room. “This is a room in our headquarters. I lead a group known as the Order of the Crescent Eye.”

Again, no familiarity. “What do you do?”

“Dress up in stupid purple robes.” It was Gaston who answered. “You’ll probably get one soon.”

“Gaston,” chided Percy, but he didn’t sound angry. Before Lee could ask any follow-up questions about the Order of the Crescent Eye, Percy asked, “Are you hungry, Lee?”

Lee frowned. “Starving, but—”

“Gaston, will you go and ask your cook to prepare something for our guest?” Percy made the request politely enough, but something in his posture made it clear that this was not optional. Gaston looked disgruntled at the dismissal, but he did as Percy said, leaving the room as covertly as he had entered.

Questions budded on Lee’s tongue, but he held them back as Percy turned. “I would’ve asked you what food you wanted,” Percy said apologetically, “but I wasn’t sure you’d have an answer.”

Indignation rose inside of Lee until he realized that Percy was right. He didn’t even remember his food preferences. And with that realization, the panic set in again. He stared sightlessly at the far wall as a horrible dread swept through him.

Then Percy was at his side, touching his arm. “Breathe. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Breathe, you’re okay.”

But with the dread, with the utter despair of not knowing who he was, Lee’s anger set in. “I’m not okay!” he burst out. He pushed Percy away. “I don’t remember who I am! I have nothing but a measly one-syllable name that I don’t even know is mine! How is that okay!”  

Percy put up his hands. “You’re right. I apologize. Maybe if we figured out your full name? Would that help?”

“It might not be a nickname,” Lee pointed out.

“No,” Percy agreed, “but it could stand for a number of things. Levi, perhaps. Leonardo. Lincoln.”

“Lincoln. . . ,” Lee whispered.

Percy’s eyes lit up. “Does that one sound familiar?”

Wrong thing to say.

“No,” Lee snapped, his voice rising like a hot fire. “No, nothing sounds familiar! Nothing! I have _nothing_ , Percy!”

The shout hung limply in the tiny room before slowly fading into silence.

“I have nothing,” he whispered.

Percy gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “You’ll at least have some food soon,” he said.

“Oh, like _that_ will fix anything,” Lee said irritably.

“It will at least help a little,” Percy assured him. “I’ll leave you for now, all right? I’ll come back in a few hours.”

“Wait!” Lee protested.

Percy paused, half turned away from him. “What is it?”

“You can’t just leave me handcuffed here.”

“That’s what I’ll have to do for now,” Percy replied. He at least seemed reluctant about it. “I’ll stay nearby; you can shout for me if you need anything. It’s probably best if you have some alone time, though, don’t you think?”

He left before Lee could answer that no, that wasn’t what he thought at all.

With a huff, Lee lay back on the bed. It was uncomfortable, mostly because his left hand was forced to hang from the handcuff. He should’ve at least asked Percy to loosen the cuff on his skin — this thing was tight.

But it was something to focus on. Something other than the gaping hole where his identity should be. And for that, he was grateful.

It wasn’t long before a stranger entered the room with a plate of food, which Lee ate awkwardly with one hand as the plate rested on his lap. Despite the discomfort, though, Percy was right: having a full stomach did help.

A little.

Not long after the meal, the door opened again to admit the stranger who had brought the food, along with Gaston. The former took the plate and left; the latter held a key.

“Don’t try anything,” Gaston told Lee as he unlocked his handcuffs. “I’ll show you the bathroom. Then it’s back here.”

Lee looked sideways at him. He could take this kid.

Before he knew what was happening, a blue glow sprang up around him, and he found he couldn’t move.

The glow disappeared, and he could move again. “Don’t try anything,” Gaston repeated. He gestured for Lee to walk ahead of him.

He did so, confused. How did Gaston do that? Somehow, he didn’t find it impossible — even though he felt that he should. He did want to know how Gaston did it, though. Mainly so he could find a way around it.

When he asked Gaston, the boy gave no sign that he had even heard the question.

 On the way back from the bathroom, they once again crossed paths with Percy Pleasure. “Ah, glad to see you on your feet, Lincoln,” he said jovially. “Are you feeling better?”

“No,” Lee said, though it was a lie. He _was_ feeling better than he had been before, but since he still didn’t feel _good_ , he didn’t think it counted. Plus, he was irritated with Percy for referring to him as Lincoln, despite him failing to agree on the name.

Percy gave Lee a look of disgusting pity, then held out his arms.

What, was he going to give Lee a _hug_? No, no thank you, please don’t—

Percy stepped forward and pulled Lee into an embrace.

“It’ll be all right,” he said.

Lee stiffened and tried to push away, but Percy was deceptively strong, and he didn’t let go easily. Lee soon gave up and just stood there. The longer the hug lasted, the more he had to admit. . . it was nice.

“I have to go home,” Percy said, pulling away. “Gaston will see you back. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Having no idea what time of day it was, Lee just stared at him. “It’s nighttime?”

Percy nodded. “You woke up at about seven-thirty PM.”

“And — I have to sleep handcuffed?”

The sympathetic smile returned. “Yes, I’m afraid.”

“Why are you keeping me prisoner?” Lee demanded. “I’m not going to find out who I am down here. And I’m not dangerous.”

“We’re not entirely sure about that part,” Percy reminded him.

“I haven’t attacked you!”

Gaston’s blue glow appeared around him, as if reminding him that he couldn’t attack even if he wanted to. When it disappeared, Lee turned menacingly on Gaston, only to be frozen once again — and levitated out of the way. The latter action threw Lee off balance, and he stumbled into Percy’s arms.

“Be nice, Gaston,” Percy said. He helped Lee onto his feet. “Listen, Lincoln, I’m sorry. But it’s what we have to do for now. Good night.” He walked away.

“You didn’t tell me why,” Lee called after him.

Percy didn’t turn back.

“Follow,” Gaston commanded. When Lee didn’t immediately obey, he was once again pulled off balance by that blue glow. This time, when it faded, he noticed the blue stone on Gaston’s lapel fade as well. So that was the source of Gaston’s power. Could Lee steal it somehow?

Not tonight, apparently. They returned to Lee’s room — his prison cell, more like — and Gaston cuffed him to the same spot. Then, without a word, he took the lantern from its sconce and left.

Lee was alone once again. Alone in an oppressive darkness. Alone, without even his memories to keep him company.

It was like he had told Percy. He truly had nothing.

Nothing but these handcuffs, which were once again painfully tight on his wrist.

He closed his eyes (not that it made much difference in this blackness) and tried to steady his breathing. It’s okay, Lee. You’re not in danger, you have a warm place to sleep, and they’re going to come back in the morning. If they didn’t. . . Lee would be stuck in darkness forever.

Despair swept over him. It didn’t matter if they brought the lantern back or not: without his memory, Lee’s world was still devoid of light.

This is your life now, his brain whispered.

His face contorted as he realized it was true. Maybe it is, he replied, but what was my life _before_?

He lay there in the darkness, desperately waiting for a response.

But his brain had no answer.

**END OF EPISODE ONE**


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